


Letters from Orlais

by Kauri



Series: Letters from Orlais [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bondage, Breeding Kink, Chair Bondage, Cullenlingus, Dirty Orlesian letters, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Food Sex, Hand Jobs, Ice Play, Kink Negotiation, Masturbation, Mild Cock and Ball Torture, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Orlais is too spicy for Cullen, Orlais' crush on Cullen, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Things are gonna get hot up in here, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vaginally Explicit, cum sharing, lots of smut, man tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The eye of the Orlesian nobility has fallen upon the Commander of the Inquisition. After the Winter Palace, Cullen wants nothing to do with the affection of Orlais. But they keep sending him dirty love letters...and the Inquisitor keeps reading them. </p><p>Or, Orlais' spicy mad crush on Cullen</p><p>Or, a sexual exploration for Cullen I-didn't-know-I-was-into-that-kink Rutherford</p><p> </p><p>(chapter specific tags will be added to the notes at the end of each chapter -- please double check if you see anything in the main tags that you find concerning)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

There’s blood on her dress, she notices. A lot. Dried blotches and flecks of burgundy hidden against the crimson silk. Remnants of offal, of bodies. Of the lives she and her’s have reaped tonight. Florianne’s blood is a solid patch from the hem of her gown nearly to her knees; covering that of Venatori agents, Orlesian guardsmen, and wayward Elven servants.

Now she understands why Josephine insisted she wear red.

She’s disgusting.

“You’re not. Not at all.” Cullen says behind her, his voice rough and raw.

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. Hadn’t realized he’d ushered her to back her suite in the palace. Hadn’t realized that his boots are splashed with the remains of his own fight -- when she leapt the banister to follow Florianne and her assassins, leaving behind panic and chaos, and ordering Cullen to stand and defend.

Now, hours later, he’s absolutely frayed. The line of his shoulders is so tight she’s afraid his spine might snap. His hands are covering his face, pinching viciously at the bridge of his nose. There is blood in his hair, too.

She doesn't realize she’s crying until Cullen reaches up, gently, and rubs the tears away with his thumbs.

“You’re...don’t --” He’s so _angry_ he’s shaking. His hands against her face tremble, but his eyes are dark and hard. “Please.”

His expression keeps oscillating. Rage, exhaustion, relief, love, rage. She can tell he’s punching down his own emotions, his own wounds, pushing them aside -- as usual -- to tend to hers. She can’t let him. Not tonight.

“You look tired.” She says.

He hesitates. Then…

“I thought it would be easier...being here.” He chuckles, sort of. There’s no humor in it. “Instead of being left behind, waiting, worrying. Imagining...terrible things.”  Cullen’s voice hitches, incredulous, then angry. “Those _fucking_ _Orlesians_.” He hisses the last word.

A curse.

Tonight has only made some things harder.

She hesitates only a heartbeat -- the blood will wash off, after all -- before she tucks herself into his embrace. He holds on. _Tight._ Angry. Still shaking. But even then his quiet strength seems to flow into her, bracing her, and she feels less drained than she has in hours.

Cullen murmurs into her hair.  “The sky split. Demons pouring out carnage all across Thedas. And I would send you back to that in a heartbeat rather than risk you to their _worthless_ _Game._ ” There’s something broken in his voice, and the jagged bits cut at her.

It is the sound of his hate.

She kisses him a moment, to still him. Mouth curving into a smile beneath his. “At least the wine is better here.”

It’s a weak joke. But the corner of his mouth twitches up, glad that she even tried.

“Debatable.” Cullen growls, very Ferelden, and deepens the kiss. “Promise me that next time we’re here to meddle in Orlesian politics, we don’t. We burn this place to the ground instead. I _cannot_ bear having to watch you imperil yourself while I stand in a corner with instructions to _flirt_.”

The sound of the bell at the servants entrance is soft, but they jump as if struck by lightning, and spring as far apart as their able. Cullen’s face is scarlet. He rubs the back of his neck and shifts his weight awkwardly, hardly looking at her.

“Maker,” He swears, looking guilty.

The string of Elven servants, bearing a copper tub, pails of steaming water, linens and a tray of soap, hardly look at them as they busy themselves with setting up her bath. They are well-trained and efficient, working so silently and unobtrusively it would be easy enough to pretend they weren’t there.

But she’s spent the evening in the bowels of the Winter Palace, and knows gossip, not gold, is the true currency in Orlais.

The Elves file out, silently, and as the door closes she moves at once to the bath, and dips her fingers in. Fills the sudden awkwardness by vigorously washing her hands. The Anchor flares, and green light bounces off the bottom of the tub. The water sparkles, as though she’s holding a handful of glowing emeralds. It should be beautiful, but it’s not. It’s intrusive. Complicated. Muddying the easiness they’ve forged with each other. Branding her as _Inquisitor._

“I’m sorry.” Cullen says, watching her. “I know we aren’t supposed to...we’re not to be seen. I’ll go.” His hand reaches out to her tentatively, then hangs. He clenches it into a fist and moves towards the door. “I shall endeavor to --”

“Stay?” She asks, softly.

“Yes.” He agrees, just as softly.

And suddenly the world seems simple again.

She lets her breath out in a little sigh. And Cullen’s behind her in a moment, hands at her waist. He presses a small chaste kiss to her shoulder and she sighs again. He pulls his gloves off with his teeth, one by one, tucking them into his belt. His bare fingers touch the water, gently, and rise to wipe a smear of blood off the corner of her jaw, then dip again, finding hers under the water, scattering the handful of emeralds.

They stay like that for a moment, close, but barely touching. Hands intertwined beneath the warmth of the water. The tub smokes, steam rising lazily between them. He turns her gently towards him.

She is enchanted by his expression. The rage has bled away, and the exhaustion is tamped down. The love is evident, still, but beside it smoulders lust. And the lust is rising. The room is light enough, but his eyes are so dilated they are nearly black, barely ringed with gold.

Cullen traces his hand over her collarbone, dripping, watches the rivulets of water disappear between her breasts. His mouth opens slightly as he cups her breast, rubs a wet thumb around the fullness above the corset. His licks his lips.

She doesn't even notice he’s got a hand behind her, working at the buttons of her gown until he’s undone enough to pull down her bodice. She gasps as her breasts spill out, heavy and bare, nipples tightening under his gaze.

“Maker.” A sound of worship.

His breathing is ragged, harsher than it should be. She can feel Cullen struggling, caught between tenderness -- he’s always so gentle with her -- and raw _desire_ . He holds himself in check, fists clenching, the very figure of power and command. Yet in a way, she’s never seen him more fragile than tonight. If _The Game_ frustrated her, it’s _wounded_ him, somehow. She should be gentle with him in return.

But this is, after all, Orlais. And gentleness is the _last_ thing she wants.

Her hand raises suddenly, cupping him between his legs. He’s rock-hard and jerks at her touch, makes a sound like she’s knifed him. She knows she isn’t the first one to touch him this evening. The Orlesians had been insistent. Constantly flirting -- laughter, questions, teasing touches. He’d been half-mast for most of the evening, fondled by faceless strangers. Relentlessly. He hated how aroused he’d been.

Cullen palms her breasts, his touch soft but absolutely rigid, teetering, still fighting to be gentle.

She arches against his touch, and starts stroking him through his breeches.

Cullen makes a pained sound, as his self control snaps. He covers her mouth with his, and _grinds_ into her hand. Slants the kiss as she opens her mouth beneath his, and devours her breath. He tugs at her breasts. Rough. Demanding. Each pull sending a pulse of heat straight between her legs.

He growls something. It sounds like a command but his teeth fix into her earlobe and she shudders so hard she can’t hear him. But she gets his belt off and flings it away, sword & scabbard attached. He carries a dagger in the sleeve of his coat too, she knows. It’s a bit of a struggle to remove it -- he’s entirely unwilling to stop kissing her -- but she does, then returns her attention to his crotch.

She manages to get the buttons on his trousers undone by touch alone. It takes longer than it should -- his tongue is in her mouth and it’s making proficiency difficult -- and pulls him out. He’s like hot, hard, silk beneath her fingers. Pure heat. She wants to taste him. The wiry spring of his golden-brown thatch brushes the back of her hand. She teases the length of him, feels a bead of pre-cum at his tip and smears it with her thumb.

She makes an appreciative sound, and bends down to lick him. But he stops her, spinning her around, yanks at the back of her gown impatiently. Something rips. Tiny, silk-covered buttons drop to the floor.

Well, her dress was _already_ a wreck.

She’s bent over the tub, arms braced against the rim. Her breasts hang low, dipping into the steaming water, the warmth soothing the roughness of his touch. He bares her. Pushes the gown and her smalls over her hips, clutches the newly exposed flesh.

Cullen presses his face to her arse, mouth open against the tight seam of her folds.

She gasps and shivers, and nearly falls into the tub.

His tongue stills. She feels him hesitate a moment, fighting for control. But his blood is _up_.

With each heartbeat his cock throbs harder and hotter, and he can’t. He presses his broad hand flat against her back, arching her, forcing her breasts lower into the water, angling her hips so she opens for him. He can see how wet she is.

All the blood in his body makes a swift exodus to his dick.

She not entirely sure what happens then. Everything is warm and wet and the heavy drag of his tongue is the only thing she can think of. The heat within her builds, and builds and when she comes against his open mouth she thinks she may have actually shattered into pieces. She feels him swallow.

Cullen says something, lips against her folds, and she has no idea what, but it sounds appreciative. He’s gentling her, like a horse, stroking the back of her knees as she shivers and trembles. Then he _licks_ her once. Slow and deliberate. And kisses his way up her spine.

“More.” She finally manages.

She can feel his answering smirk between her shoulder blades. His hands are on her breasts again, pulling, pinching. Her nipples are desperately hard and sensitive in the wake of her orgasm. He twists one. She keens.

Cullen moves over her, cock in hand, and presses the tip of himself into her. Then, unbelievably, he stills. There’s something strangely hollow in his voice. “I should have danced with you.”

It takes a minute for his words to register, she’s too busy trying to back herself onto him. But she feels her sides tickle with laughter when she does. He sounds so bewildered that she turns around to look at him. Their eyes lock and something strikes her down deep into her core.

It isn’t his cock.

Unfortunately.

But it’s overwhelming, and terrifying and lays heavy on her heart.

He’s panting, face slick with her pleasure, and his eyes are wide and hurt, and a little unfocused. “If I’d lost you...for them...and I hadn’t…I _couldn’t_ \-- ”

“Cullen,” She breathes.

“I love you.” He whispers. She feels his cock twitch, as if it agrees. And he hilts himself within her in one long stroke.

Oh… _Oh._

_Yes._

Her heart explodes. Doesn’t it? Maybe it’s the anchor -- it flares for a moment, green and bright.

She can feel every inch of him inside her. He rests _so deep_. Something throbs, and she isn’t sure if it’s him or her, but it doesn’t really matter.

_He loves her._

She comes. Again.

Cullen feels the ripple of her orgasm, as she clenches around him. He groans, pulls out slowly, almost entirely, and pushes in again. _Slowly._ Twice. Then, suddenly spurs faster. Two more quick thrusts and then he _pounds_ into her. Hard. Relentless. Each thrust grinds against her oversensitive clit, and she cries out. Little pleas, half pain and half, something else. His hand is on her neck, guiding her, arching her shoulders back against him, bowing her to his pleasure. The weight of her breasts bounce with the vigor of his thrusts. His fingers bite into her hips as he holds her down, keeping her angled so that his cock hits -- just so -- against her inner walls.

He pulls back suddenly, and she nearly topples over. He fists himself, once, twice, and once again.

Cullen comes with a roar, spurting seed on the crimson puddle of her dress.

He sighs deeply, hand round his cock, stroking slowly to the last of his pleasure.

He’s red-faced and utterly disheveled. His curls stick up wildly, lank around his temples, wet with sweat. His pants are around his thighs and it looks as though he had tried to wrangle himself out of his coat, but gave up at some point. Even so, he’s grinning, eyes half closed.

She’s likely in the same state. Some of her hair is still pinned up, but the rest is stuck to her face and neck. She steps entirely free of her gown and kisses him. He’s nearly swaying, and doesn’t resist when she undresses him completely, and pulls him into the tub. The water rises, splashes over the rim -- it’s less warm than it was. She heats it with a gesture, and he doesn’t seem to notice.

There’s something in the bath, it smells of orange blossoms and sweet spice. The water’s slightly opaque, almost creamy and shines like a pearl.

The tub is large, but not _quite_ large enough for the both of them. His feet are braced at the end, knees bent and above the water. She’s acutely aware of every place she’s touching him. They face each other at opposite ends, not speaking, avoiding each other’s gaze. There’s a _shyness_ now. She isn’t sure what it means.

Cullen breaks the silence first.

“What I said before…” His voice is low, and it falters.

She risks a quick look him, but he’s turned away, cheeks red. “You regret it?” She almost manages to keep her voice steady.

“No!” His eyes snap to hers, surprised. “No. I...not at all.” He rubs the back of his neck and eases himself just a bit lower in the tub. “I just...it should have been different. Moonlight. Roses. That’s how I wanted to tell you.”

He seems honestly bothered.

Doesn’t he realize…

The water is nearly at the brim and sloshes over as she shifts herself and settles against him. She can feel his erection trapped between them. Cullen is, unbelievably, still hard. She arches her brow at her discovery.

He shrugs, one side of his mouth lifts lazily.

The silence falls between them again, but it takes on a completely different quality as she finds him underwater, and wraps her hand around the base of his cock. He’s sensitive, sucks in a ragged breath at her touch.

She goes slow, finding the gentleness he sought when they began.

The water covers so much of him, it’s easier to focus on his reaction. She watches him intently.

He is _so_ beautiful.

The sounds he makes even more so.

His breath hitches and the muscles of his chest ripple as she strokes him. His brows crease, pinching, almost like he’s in pain, but his mouth hangs open, catching on a sigh. His hands clutch the side of the tub, but he doesn’t reach for her.

Hard as he is, it takes a while, stroking him as slowly as she does. But eventually he’s breathing deeply, eyes half lidded, head lolling. She can feel him start to thrust up into her hand. His balls float weightlessly.

She adjusts her grip and _twists_ as she strokes him. He cries out, toes curling. He’s _close._ She reaches out and teases his nipple with the edge of her fingernail. He jerks, flushes down the length of his chest, rocks his hips, but can’t get any more friction.

She has never seen him so undone. So open, so completely _hers._

“Cullen…”

His eyes find hers, struggle, finally focus.

“Cullen, I love you.”

She watches as her words wash over him. He comes almost silently, but with a shattering intensity she’s never witnessed. She holds his gaze, his heart, strokes him through the last tide of pleasure. There are actual tears in his eyes.

He surges forward at the last, capturing her mouth. They sit until the water is nearly cold, whispering their love between feather-light kisses. Thin skinned and fragile with joy.

“I love you.”

He closes his eyes. “Maker.”

It’s a prayer, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific tags: Oral sex, vaginal sex, handjob


	2. I would touch you, Ser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen lets Trevelyan read a letter. With much begrudge. 
> 
> Also, boobs.

**** Things should be more or less back to normal when they return to Skyhold, but they aren’t.

Her nights are now filled playing Inquisitor, drinking and politicking through the sharp increase of visiting dignitaries. He wakes before the dawn to train the new recruits that flood his ranks. These are the spoils of victory. But they’ve hardly had time alone.

She kisses him though, as often as she can. Bleary-eyed brushes where she’s usually hungover, and he’s usually exhausted, but they meet in the shadow of a doorway and just  _ melt _ for a moment.

They try to make it a point to take their mid-day meal together, not privately -- they can’t -- but at the same table. They don’t sit next to each other often, or, at least not  _ too _ often. But when they do their fingers touch constantly under the table and no one notices that Cullen suddenly eats left-handed.

They linger in the war room as the others leave, taking their fill of stolen moments, knowing they’ve returned to a world where they must take care not to look at each other too much, or smile too brightly.

They don’t -- by taciturn agreement -- speak of what passed between them in Orlais. Cullen’s ferocious passion, their mutual confessions, any of it.

Not even when one evening, in between guard rotation, Cullen has her on his desk. A swift, stealthy encounter, but afterwards they only manage a few private words before a messenger is there -- something about shields and something Bull did, and she excuses herself without saying goodbye.

She watches him though, covertly throughout her day. Spies him on the battlements speaking to his soldiers, watches him training in the yard, the light of the frostbacks glinting off his chestplate as he gestures with his sword. Her eyes find him constantly, even when she isn’t looking. So it’s difficult not to notice that something is  _ wrong. _

He bristles without cause. Stamps around the castle. Snaps at his underlings. It’s more than simple displeasure. It reminds her a bit of how he seemed that night at the Winter Palace, angry and hurt at the same time. His temper seems to vanish, only to return at unexpected moments.

Once, when she visits Harrit in the undercroft he’s already there, conversing with Dagna -- something about weapons infused with lyrium. The pair are shoulder to shoulder talking animatedly about the potential ratio of lyrium-to-stormheart for the inlay. (Apparently this is a topic to hotly debate. They’re a bit annoying about it, honestly.)

Cullen laughs at something the arcanist says. Even Harrit smiles when he hears it. But a bit later, when she catches Cullen staring at her, he goes absolutely scarlet, slams his fist on the table and leaves.

Abruptly.

Even Dagna’s surprised.

Things are going well for the Inquisition. He shouldn’t be this wound up, but he is. His messengers seem to catch his anger the most. She hears them, one afternoon arguing over who should deliver a letter, but it isn’t until she catches him in Josephine’s empty office kneeling in front of her fireplace that she realizes  _ this is it. _

Cullen startles when she enters the room, very much caught the act. There’s a small stack of letters at his feet, another one in his hand, and few already smoking in the hearth.

He stares at her. She stares at him.

Nothing happens.

And then, “Cullen, what is that?”

“What?”

“ _ That.” _ She gestures at the letter in his hand. It’s sealed, she can tell from here. “What are you doing with it?”

“Burning it.” His expression is set now. A martyr going to his death.  _ “Obviously.” _

“ _ Why? _ What is it?”

“Orlesian filth.” Cullen pronounces every syllable with a tone previously reserved for blood magic. He  _ glowers _ at her, greatly disapproving.

She bursts out laughing, she can’t help it -- he’s being melodramatic -- and steps fully into the room. “Here, let me see.”

With no hesitation, he scoops the stack of letters up and dumps them all into the fire.

She gapes at him for a moment before remembering herself and extinguishes the flames with a gesture. He makes a growly sound of protest, indignant. She scoops the letters out of the hearth, one crumbles into ash beneath her fingers, another is badly singed, but likely readable, and the rest smoke only a little.

His mouth drops open in protest, then snaps shut. Josephine and Varric, are outside the door. The two most incorrigible gossips in the Inquisition. She sets the hearth aflame from across the room and crosses to the door, Cullen close at her heels. People part for her in the great hall and she cuts a path straight to her room. A guard attempts to intersect Cullen but he growls, “Deal with it.” and the man slinks away.

As soon as the door behind them closes he’s on her, snatching the letters out of her hand. Their eyes lock, angry, ready to do battle. She  _ could _ order him to give her the letters. As Inquisitor. She can tell he knows she could, too.

Instead she blinks, and takes a deep breath through her nose. “You didn’t even read them.”

He relaxes infinitesimally. “I know what they say.”

_ Tell me, _ her eyes ask.

He looks away. “Believe me, if they affected the Inquisition I would bring them to your attention. They do not. It is a... _ private matter. _ ”

She watches Cullen fumble as he tries to tuck the letters into the pocket of his surcoat. Now that she looks, she sees he’s right: they aren’t official looking letters. Different colors, blue, burgundy, grey, gold, and a cheery yellow, but all the same, really. Small and square and scented.

_ Perfumed _ letters.

For him.

From another lover.

She shouldn’t be surprised --  _ look at him _ \-- but...

Oh,  _ no… _

Her expression crashes, she knows it does. He notices and crosses over to her in alarm.

“No, no. Maker, it’s nothing like that.”

He takes a deep breath.

Whatever his protests, she is  _ sure _ he’s about to break her heart.

“I read your official report on the events at the Winter Palace.” He says, instead.

It’s not  _ the absolute _ last thing she expected to hear, but she laughs. With relief. It’s a little hysterical sounding.

Cullen grimaces. “You didn’t actually spend much time talking with any Orlesians. I did. They’re…  a bit...” He blushes, rubbing his neck, groping to be diplomatic,  “ _ Forward. _ And they…  _ Maker _ …”

“We did find a naked man tied up in Celene’s bed.” She offers.

Cullen’s mouth falls open.  _ “What?” _

“It  _ is _ Orlais.” She shrugs. It is explanation enough. “Josephine didn’t want anything on the official report that could unseat our good work. Politically speaking.”

He snorts.

She gives him a tiny, uncertain smile.

“Read them.” He sighs, puts the letters on the desk with only the _ slightest _ hesitation. “Just… I could tell what you were thinking. Don’t.”  He reaches out and touches her arm, lightly. “There isn’t anyone else. Just you. Read them.”

“And,” He adds as she pulls a dark blue envelope from the pile and tears it open. “Andraste preserve me.”

She does.

“Oh.”  Her face falls. “This one’s in Orlesian. We could ask Josephine…” She suggests.

“No!” He reaches over and snatches the letter from her. “Maker, no.” He runs a hand through his hair, flushing brightly at the thought. “ _ No. _ ” He insists.

She chooses another letter. This one is yellow, it’s edges finely gilt. There’s a butterfly drawn on the back in shimmering gold ink. It’s written in Common, this time.

_ To the Commanding Perfection of the Inquisition whose Body haunts mine~ _

It starts.

And it gets much worse.

There’s vague references to bequeathing Cullen land and / or titles. And some Orlesian colloquialisms that she’s not sure she understands. But then the author -- a Comtesse Lisse du Maraque -- falls steadily from rather poetic descriptions of Cullen’s attributes, into full blown erotica. About what the Comtesse would do to him. What the Comtesse wants him to do to her.

Oh,  _ my… _

She can feel her brows shoot up while something else coils low in her belly. A warm spreading heat. The Comtesse is after all, rather explicit, and very descriptive, and they both share an appreciation for the roundness of Cullen’s arse.

She clears her throat.

Cullen is looking  _ anywhere _ but at her. He looks like he’s sweating.

_ “‘I would touch you, Ser.’” _ She reads, outloud.  _ “‘Taste you at your last. Press you between the splendor of the breasts you have suckled, and let you finish there, emptying yourself against skin like silk. I would treasure the pearls you set upon my throat and press them over my heart.’” _

The silence is  _ thunderous.  _ His face is so red she’s a little concerned he may actually be having a heart attack. She takes a deep, shaky breath, and breathes out, very, very slowly.

Hot. Damn.

“Are they all like this?”

“Yes. They’re not always so…um...poetic...or...” He gestures vaguely and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘bosomy’.

Cullen shifts slightly, his body carefully turned away from hers, his expression red, but blank. He is mightily aroused, she realizes, and they are alone. In her room. With a bed.

Her scarf and gloves hits the floor before he notices she’s undressing. But when he does his attention -- previously held by the carpet, the bookshelf,  _ anywhere  _ but her --  _ fixates _ with such an intensity it steals her breath. She moves her fingers down the row of clasps at her front, slowly pushing the fabric off her shoulders, shifting, until her blouse falls free. His hands clench reflexively at his side, but he stays put, watching.

She undoes the laces of her trousers slowly, unthreading the string entirely through each hole it passes. Then she  _ inches _ the fabric, smalls and all, off her hips. It’s a bit tight, and she has to wiggle a little to get them down. Her breasts bounce with the movement, and Cullen’s eyes widen a little. His eyes focus on the small thatch of hair between her legs, then snap back up to her face.

She has to bend over, unfortunately, to take off her boots, but when she does Cullen steps neatly around her to preserve his view. Rests his hand on her backside to steady her, she thinks, as she pulls them off, one by one.

He’s nearly naked too. Having used the diversion of the boots to his advantage, stealthy divesting himself of his armor. That wasn’t really very fair.

She  _ really _ can’t complain though. His skin is warm and his fingers move up her body, savoring her. His cock is high against his belly, hard, and nearly-purple with want.

_ “Maker,” _ He breathes. “You are so, so beautiful.”

She was just thinking the same of him. She traces his chest with her fingertips avoiding the large blotchy scar that covers part of his torso. Splashback from Mage’s spell. It’s old, and well healed. It does  _ nothing _ to detract from his beauty. She skirts her touch around the right nipple that is nothing more than scar-tissue now, crosses over his belly, lingers, just shy of his hardness.

Cullen closes his eyes, waiting. The head of his cock drips.

_ “‘I would touch you, Ser.’” _ She quotes.

He swallows hard. She can see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Maker’s Breath.”

She backs him towards the bed until he’s sitting. And kneels between him, nestling his cock between the swell of her breasts.

He licks his lips and bites back a groan. “Wasn’t I supposed to... uh… suckle on them first?”

“Hush, I’m concentrating.” She squeezes herself together, experimentally. Her breasts aren’t  _ quite _ large enough for this to work as she imagines. There’s more squashing and less engulfing than she thought. And the friction  _ pulls _ a little, but he doesn’t complain.

She reaches under the bed for a moment, to where the bottles of her own personal oils are kept. Squirts some on her breasts, then, catching his eye, makes a show of it. Arches her back a little. Tilting herself so the oil drips off the tips of her, cupping and lifting with both hands until she’s entirely slick.

Cullen reaches down between his legs and strokes himself, watching.

It’s better now. His cock glides between her breasts, disappearing entirely between them before poking up, the slit on his tip weeping with each stroke. She dips her head, sucks the very tip of him. She can’t really taste him, the flavor of the vanilla in the oil she uses is too strong, but the oil itself is surprisingly  _ not _ unpleasant on her tongue.

“Am I doing this right?”

“Maker, I have no idea.” He groans, “Don’t stop.”

She smiles, which is counter-productive, since it make it difficult to keep him in her mouth. So she adjusts her grip, holding him  _ below _ her breasts, fisting him in a way that makes her cleavage bounce.

She alternates between sucking and stroking, and using her breasts against him. He tries to keep watching but when she leans down to suck one of his balls entirely into her mouth his eyes snap shut with a startled cry. It’s more difficult, overall, using her breasts. She needs both hands to work him, and she shifts, feeling the dampness between her own legs go untouched.

It’s worth it, though.

He arches off the bed, bracing himself on his arms, thrusting a bit. His hands run through her hair, palm the top of her head, but don’t push down. She hums and he swears, but she doesn’t take him deeper, just keeps the attention of her tongue and her lips focused on the head of his cock.

When Cullen’s eyes start to flutter and he thrusts up in earnest, she tightens her grip on his shaft and  _ works  _ him. This is the part where he usually pulls away, finishes himself, spills his seed into his own hands. She’s never asked him why.

This time, though she holds on, and he lets her. She feels his balls draw up as his climax hits. Feels the throb of his cock in her hands. His hips bounce erratically, losing all sense of the rhythm she’d set, and he explodes. His come hits her breasts, her neck, startlingly hot and slick. She strokes him through the last of his groans. He’s flushed and breathing heavily, and heavy-lidded as he is, he can’t take his eyes off of her.

“Maker,” Cullen pants. “That may be the loveliest sight I have ever seen.”

She presses a kiss on the inside of his vanilla-scented thigh and grins. “We’ll have to write to Comtesse Lisse to thank her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: Oral sex, Titty-fucking


	3. I shall take you over my knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter. And a taste of Cullen's sexually frustrated POV.

The rest of the Orlesian letters sit on Trevelyan’s desk, untouched. He knows because he looks every time he’s there. And, every time he’s there, he remembers how she looked, kneeling before him, smiles and sparkling eyes, and  _ her breasts.  _ The smug look she’d given him at the last, when he’d spent himself on her. He hadn’t understood the fascination of finishing in such a manner, had been taught to be mindful of his seed -- except for strict use in procreation -- but he could not deny the rush of primal  _ possession _ that had filled him to see her so. 

_ Mine. _ He had thought, and felt the answering echo such joy always brought.  _ Unworthy. _ It hissed in his ear.

He did not disagree.

Now though, he watches her at the war table, hands clenched behind his back. He tries not to let his gaze linger upon her as she speaks, but it’s so hard not to. She pushes her hair behind her ear and his eyes dart to the bare patch of skin on her neck.

He blushes, damnit.

They don’t look at each other directly, always busying themselves with moving markers or shuffling papers when the other speaks. But it’s hard not to notice that they  _ vibrate  _ in each other's presence. Leliana’s gaze hangs on him, heavy with speculation.

He does his best to focus, but it’s been days since he’s even had his hands on her, and, in his defense, the Western Approach is a constant stream of sand, and rumors, and missives that Rylen could have damn well taken care of on his own.

The War Council though, _ is _ blessedly short, and he mummers a word of thanks to Andraste at its close.

As they leave -- he hangs back a bit so he can sneak a glance Trevelyan's backside -- a gust of wind blows through the hall. He can see an Elf at the far end, one of Leliana’s, holding open the double doors to the Ambassador’s study.

He makes a disgusted noise as the various papers and notes on the war table -- anything not actually  _ pinned _ to the map -- scatter in the wind. Perhaps he should have invoked the Maker instead.

He glares at the retreating Advisors equally, though this is really Josephine’s fault.  _ She _ left the window in the war room open.

Trevelyn, of course, notices and turns back at once, kneeling to help him gather the fallen papers. He swears under his breath, bangs his head on the underside of the war table as he tries to stand, and swears definitely  _ not _ under his breath.

She smiles brightly, teeth clamped down over her lip in an effort not to laugh. He can  _ feel _ the faint fizz of laughter under her skin, and stops glowering long enough to remind himself that he’s glad he can, at least, make her smile.

As the door to the war room swings shut again, she turns back to the large and ornately carved table, tapping the edge of the papers back into a neat stack. He takes advantage of the momentary solitude, comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her. He means only to kiss her neck, on the very patch of skin just behind the ear she’d bared earlier...

But she smells, very faintly, of vanilla.

_ Maker. _

His nostrils flare, and his cock rises.

And then, without being entirely sure of his own intentions, he gets his hands on the laces of her trousers, and yanks them open. She makes a startled sound, but not, he thinks, a protesting one. So he pulls off his gloves with his teeth, and slips his hand into her waistband.

“Cullen,” She whispers, arches against him  _ ever so slightly. _

He growls her name, it’s a threat and a promise all in one. And his hand slides down, cupping, feeling the downy spring of her hair nestled against his palm. He doesn’t tease, just sinks his fingers into her and holds them there.

Tight as she is Trevelyan takes two of them, up to the third knuckle. He can feel her pulsating around him, warm and faintly slick.

She makes a small breathless sound, a plea and his fingers rock, stray hand finding her breast, lips biting their way down the column of her throat. It takes only a few thrusts before she’s wet, and his touch skims along her sensitive flesh, dipping, exploring.

He strokes the soft ridges inside of her, curling his fingers, then scissoring them, setting a ruthless pace. “Don’t hold back.” He mummers into her ear.

Trevelyan bucks against him, breath coming in short gasps, which devolve into a sort of urgent whine when he begins to work at her clit. She’s trembling by then, he can feel her shake within his arms, and has to move his other hand down to her hips to steady her.

He’s unsure if she’s doing it on purpose -- probably, the minx -- but she’s grinding back against him, lovely round arse wedged around the hard outline of his cock. He can’t feel much but pressure through his leathers, but the sight of her alone is enough to fray his restraint.

“Taste yourself.” He growls into her ear.

Even as he presses his fingers between her lips, a small part of himself is shocked at his own behavior. A much larger part is aroused beyond reason as Trevelyan sucks her own slick off his hand. His knees shake. He wonders faintly if this is when his self control will snap entirely, and if he’ll have her on the war table then and there.

When he enters her again with his fingers, he does so from behind, finds her cunt so wet she’s nearly dripping. He uses three this time, and can feel the stretch, but he fucks her with tireless precision, never breaking the rhythm he sets. She braces herself against the war table, moaning.

She’s so, so beautiful like that. Back deeply arched, and just the smallest slice of her arse bare, wet and shaking with need.

He thumbs her clit with his other hand, and pinches it,  _ firmly. _

Trevelyan shrieks, but he’s ready for it, claps a hand over her mouth, muffling her cry.

“Come for me.” He commands.

She does.

She falls apart, cries catching in his hand, and  _ shivers _ in his arms. He strokes her through her climax, feeling the way she clenches around his fingers and the deeper, erratic pulse of her cunt as she peaks.

He  _ assaults _ her clit, then. Rubbing the over-sensitive nub with the ball of his thumb. It doesn’t take long. Only a minute of this and she is completely spent, and he wishes he could wrap her in his arms, and carry her off to her room, and -- if he’s being perfectly honest -- pull out his cock and fuck her senseless.

He doesn’t even blush.

Maker.

She staggers against the war table, weak and unsteady. He supports her as she collects herself, smirking into her hair, inexcusably proud of himself. And ignores the tent pitched so obviously in his own pants.

But he hears voices in the hall. A messenger looking for Trevelyn.

“Damnit.” He says.

“I love you.” She reminds him in a whisper.

“I know.” It draws a smile from him, every time. He turns his head, kissing her softly on the temple. “But I’ll  _ never _ understand why.”

He leaves her then, feeling absurdly guilty, and holds the man for a minute in idle conversation just outside the doors, giving her enough time to catch her breath and lace up her trousers.

He catches a glimpse of her as the messenger opens the door. She appears to be completely absorbed in studying the war table, but her color is a little high, and he can tell she’s still braced against it for support.

Their eyes meet, just briefly, and when he turns his back on the warmth he finds there -- he has to, he hears someone calling his name, and has no excuse to linger-- it’s almost like a physical blow.

\--

It’s early, the sun is barely beginning to crest over the mountain, but Skyhold, he knows, is never slow to wake. Yet when he returns, his office is still empty. The courtyard below, quiet. He should set himself to work. There is, always, an endless litany of tasks to attend.

Instead, his mind fixates -- again -- on a not entirely respectful image of Trevelyan, breasts splashed with his seed, flushed and heaving. She’d licked her lips at the very last, he remembers. He wonders what it would be like to come in her mouth.

_ Maker. _

With only the most perfunctory of hesitations, he sits behind his desk, loosens the laces on his trousers and takes himself in hand. His fingers so clearly recall the feel of her slickness beneath them that his own hardening member, for the barest moment, feels strange. He strokes the length of himself with a practiced twist, and is fully erect almost at once.

Images of her flood his mind. Her mouth, her breasts, the sound of her laughter. The warmth of her, under his hands, the salt and smell of her most secret places, the way her eyes flutter closed, breath catching as she comes.

His cock pulses in his hands.

Exuberant.

Undisciplined.

He touches himself so often now. Has to, really, when his position requires that he be near her, and hers demands that he keep away. He doesn’t linger in his pleasure. Goes to work like a soldier, with strong, measured strokes. He’s  _ close.  _ He can feel his balls tighten, cock unbelievably hard and…

_ A knock. _

“Commander, a message from Leliana for you, Ser.” 

No _. _

Fuck.

_ Typical. _

“Commander?”

He sucks in a single, shaky breath, resisting the urge to pound his fist on his desk in frustration.

The day starts to degrade rapidly after that. He has a terrible time focusing, developing a headache, not as bad as they can be -- some days he feels as though his skull has been caved in by a mace -- but a constant, relentless ache, matching the one in his balls. Twice more he’s interrupted when he tries to find a quiet moment to masturbate.  _ Twice.  _ And then he sits completely undisturbed in his office for nearly  _ three  _ hours,  _ trying _ to focus on his work. Resisting the urge to touch himself, because he’s  _ absolutely sure _ he’s going to interrupted at any moment…  then isn’t.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt so sexually frustrated before.

He paces around his office, mood growing blacker and blacker, thinks absurd thoughts about caged lions and other such nonsense. And decides, finally -- after verbally abusing the poor scout who’d come to tell him a shipment had been delayed -- that he needs to find Trevelyan  _ now.  _ For the good of the soldiers stationed at Skyhold.

And his poor, neglected cock.

Trevelyan, when he finds her, is in the first place he looks; hunched over the desk in her quarters, making tiny notations on a map of the Fallow Mire. She is also -- as further proof of the Maker’s benevolence -- alone.

He must look… odd, because Trevelyan stands as soon as she sees him. “Are you alright?” She frowns.

“I have lost all semblance of self control.” He admits.

Her brows raise, and her shoulders square, just a little. There’s nothing teasing in her expression. He realizes she must think --  _ Maker, what must she think _ \-- that he’s done something truly terrible.

_ Damnit, Rutherford. _

“No!” He rubs the back of his neck as it flushes. “No, it isn’t… I haven’t -- just...” He falters, and gives up. Instead he takes her hand and presses it flush against his erection.

Her expression shifts. He swears her eyes actually get a little darker.

She cups him briefly through his trousers, and it’s the strangest sensation, like he’s so hard and full she might actually do him physical damage with her touch, and yet he wants  _ more _ .

He makes an embarrassing sound, something caught halfway between a hiss and a whine.

“You didn’t…?” She asks delicately.

“I  _ tried.” _ It’s hard to hide the frustration in his voice. He groans, bumping his erection up against her leg. “You’d think I could manage better control. It was years and years…”

“Making up for lost time, I expect.” She grins and slides her arms up his shoulders and around his neck. It’s an invitation, but somehow all it does is frustrate him. He can’t feel her touch through the plate and leather he wears.

“Damnit,” He says, bites at one of his gloves and pulls it off, tangles his bare hand in her hair, and kisses her deeply and thoroughly. She tastes faintly of honey, and that flowery tea Dorian likes so well. But more than anything she tastes like  _ her,  _ and he finds himself backing her towards the desk, gloved hand skimming over her curves.

She gets a hand between them, two hands, really, and starts undoing the fastenings of her blouse. He tries simultaneously to keep kissing her, and to  _ not _ crush her against his breastplate. He isn’t really successful in either attempt.

When she gets her blouse undone she pulls away from him a little, enough to seat herself on the edge of her desk, and flutter her eyelashes at him.

“Cullen…” She mummers.

_ Maker’s breath. _

His throat is too dry to answer, but he growls appreciatively, and traps her between his hardness and the edge of the desk.

He grinds her against it enthusiastically, silently praising the generally sturdy construction of the desks of Skyhold -- they should plan a desk tour -- when the little stack of Orlesian letters she keeps at the corner, falls. Unseated by his thrusting, they scatter to the floor.

It’s a small offence. A tiny blur of colors, and the softest flutter of sound. But they both freeze and stare. His fingers are on the edge of her jaw, over the pulse point at her throat, and he can feel that her heart is  _ hammering. _ They are still for several long moments, each barely daring to breathe.

Then he clears his throat, pulls away from her just enough to reach down for the nearest letter. Slowly, slowly. It’s the singed one, grey and edged with black burns. It’s impossible to tell if it was scented, it smells only of ash. He’s not sure what he intends by picking it up.

Trevelyen reaches, moving as slowly and carefully as he had, plucks the letter from his hand, and opens it.

He means to protest, it is entirely unnecessary, after all, but his throat freezes.

The envelope is filled with dried violets, they spill out. A few catch on her breasts, delicate little flakes of purple, and white and pale, pale yellow. He has the absurd desire to lick them off.

As he watches, she reads the letter in total silence. Her color rises, and her breath catches in a few spots, blouse parting slightly, as she breathes. Then, she passes it to him, and waits.

He reads.  
  


_ Ser Cullen, _

_ You naughty boy. You paragon of feigned virginity. You tease. _

_ Celene’s latest fête was amusing, I must admit, but I left without sampling the delights of Ferelden. And you, without tasting the true rapture of Orlais. This was poorly done of us both. My prick is divinity, I tell you. _

_ I remember well, the feel of your lovely, round arse beneath my hands. Is it dusted with gold, like the rest of you? I wonder. I’ve both a fondness for gold, and a talent. I, naturally, bribed the servants to let me wait for you within your quarters, wrapped up like the most exquisite of presents; but you never came. _

_ At least not as hard as you would have, had you taken your pleasure with me. _

_ I myself came, but only thrice. A dissapointment. _

_ I have a keen dislike for disappointment. _

_ So I shall take you over my knee, Ser, and spank you ‘till your golden bottom is red and quivering and warm beneath my touch. Your arse shall pay for my displeasure. Again, and again, and again. _

_ Yours, _

_ Ser Raphaël Anquetil, Noblesse d’épée _

 

He reads the letter in its entirety. Twice. The words on the page blur, and his vision goes a little grey around the edges. He’s slightly afraid that there isn’t enough blood left in the rest of him -- his dick is  _ clearly _ oversupplied -- to maintain proper bodily functions. Like speech, or rational thought.

So he isn’t really surprised when his hand raises and fits itself around the back of her neck, pulling her towards him and off the desk. But he’s  _ quite _ surprised when he takes a step back, sits in her chair, and pulls her, face down, across his lap.

She squawks. An absurdly undignified sound for the Inquisitor to make.

Somehow, he manages to get ahold of both her arms, and  _ pins _ them in his fist at the small of her back. Then he peels down her breeches, with his free hand, exposing her bare arse. She makes a much more gratifying sound this time.

He skims his touch across her buttocks with the flat of his hand.

Insanity.

He is clearly insane.

That odd grey, blurry vision thing is back. He take a deep, shaky breath, then draws his hand back and slaps her ass.

It isn’t really very hard, his palm barely even stings, but it’s  _ loud _ and they both jump at the sound. He freezes.

_Rutherford,_ what _are you_ doing?!!  He thinks, panicking a little.

She turns her head, still startled, and peers at him over her shoulder. It is very, very quiet. For a moment neither of them move, or even breathe, they simply hang, the fate of the world seems poised on her reaction.

Her eyes are wide, and for once  _ she’s _ the one who’s blushing. He can see the print of his hand, faintly red on her buttock and his breath hitches. She blinks at him, once, and turns her head back again.

“Harder.”

A whisper. So soft and ragged he isn’t sure if he imagined it, or if she’s really asking him to…

“Harder.” She says again, there’s a little heat behind it this time.

He raises his hand, but hesitates.

_ “Please.” _ She begs.

He has never been any good at denying her requests.

He admires her arse as he spanks her. The shape and weight of it, the gentle  _ spring _ of flesh at each strike. He admires the color of it --  _ Maker --  _ her arse glows pink, then red from the heat of his attentions. But most of all he admires the  _ sounds,  _ the smack of flesh-on-flesh is reminiscent enough of sex to be arousing on its own, but it’s the noises  _ she _ makes that really undo him.

She gasps and growls beneath his touch, breathless, like she can’t get enough air. She nearly shrieks when he strikes the very same spot on her arse five times in succession. And she  _ whines _ whenever he hesitates, pants, begs when he pauses to pay tender homage to her bottom.

He’s noisy too. Gentling. Praising.

He doesn’t let go and he doesn’t let up, not until his palm stings, and his cock throbs impatiently.

_ “Maker…” _ He whispers raggedly when he finally, finally stops.

Her arse is  _ red _ . And  _ hot. _ He can feel the heat of it through his palm. One print is so bright, that he can -- and does -- trace the outline left by his hand, with his fingertips.

“I…” He stops, speechless. Utterly unsure of what to say or do.

She moans breathlessly, and raises her arse just a bit. The angle parts her, a little and she’s so wet her sex is  _ glistening.  _ He can actually  _ feel _ a damp patch on the knee of his trousers.

“Maker…” He whispers again. “Holy, blessed Andraste…”

_ “Cullen,” _ She breathes.

The way she says his name makes it sound like a prayer.

“I-I can’t… need to…” His hand tightens over her arse and she gasps, a little, arching against him.  _ “Please…” _

He rolls her to the floor, pinning her beneath him, nestling himself against her red, red arse. He braces himself with one hand, unlaces his breeches with the other, and frees his erection.

The head of his cock is _ purple _ , and so hard the veins of it are bulging. He’s leaking so much pre-come some drips onto the crack of her ass.

She makes a strangled sound.

He presses forwards, onto her, into her. The heat of her against his balls is so intense he yelps. Or, maybe she does. It’s hard to tell. But he can’t keep his eyes off her as he fucks her on the floor.

Her back arches and she draws her knees up, just a little, enough so she can raise herself up, and meet his thrusts. He reaches down, angling her hips so he can hit even deeper, and harder. Sweat rolls into his eyes, and he swipes it away, carelessly. Fur and plate are possibly not the best attire for vigorous floor-sex, but despite the discomfort, he doesn’t let up.

He  _ twists _ a little, cants his hips off-center as he thrusts. She gasps, brokenly. It’s an intense angle, and her hips raise, even more, until she’s almost on her hands and knees. He lifts himself, up and over her, until she’s braced on her toes, legs spread wide, knees locked, and the angle is such that he thrusts  _ down _ and into her.

He’s so deep in her he’s certain the tip of his cock has pushed its way into her womb.

And  _ Maker,  _ it feels so, so, so good he isn’t sure how he’s expected to do anything else with his life.

He says things to her. Growly, filthy things that would probably make him blush if he had to presence of mind to pay attention to his own words. Or she did. But her cries are loud, tumbling together until they’re a single, continuous sound of pleasure.

He feels himself at the edge of the cliff. Hanging… hanging...

He has to pause.  _ Has to. _

But he doesn’t.

Can’t.

He rolls his hips in time to her wail, so lost in his own pleasure it’s almost a shock when her cries break, and she comes. He can feel her ripple around him, cunt tightening involuntarily with her orgasm.

She shouts his name, he thinks.

His balls tighten. He can actually feel the come at the base of his cock.

_ Pull out, pull out! Now-now-now-now!! _

He tears himself from her with a cry. His fingers find his cock. They squeeze, circle the head, just once, and he comes.

He should pull away, cup his hands beneath his stream, but he doesn’t. He aims his cock down and spends himself on her ass. Splashes the red with white. Keeps stroking until his balls empty, until his cries stop, and his senses return.

_ Maker. _

On his knees, he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

She is limp beneath him, breathing heavily. Limbs thrown out with the force of her climax. Her arse is covered with his seed. Some has leaked over and pools in the small of her back. She looks very much like a beast has had their way with her.

_ You _ are the beast. The dark voice in him reminds.

He feels his cheeks flame.

They don’t burn  _ entirely _ with shame. There is satisfaction, too. Pride. Contentment.

Concern.

He sighs, sinks back on his heels. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She chuckles, rises unsteadily to her hands and knees. “You did,” She confirms, but turns into him before he can protest. “Promise me you’ll do it again.” She presses herself against him, kisses him, steals whatever faculty of thought he’d regained. “Or, let me do that to you.”

“Maker’s breath.” He swears, but his cock twitches with interest.

He helps her re-dress. Tucks her hair behind her ears, kisses the spot of skin behind them -- both of them -- determinedly. Helps her straighten her desk, but pointedly ignores the letters on the floor.

“We missed lunch.” She notes.

“Dinner, then?” He glances out the window, the sun is much lower than it was when they started.  “Damnit.” He starts. “I have to go.”

“Dinner.” She promises, kisses him one last time.

He’s halfway down the stairs before he suddenly remembers. “Oh!” He doubles back, bounding back up and kisses her, again, briefly. “I love you, too.”

She still smells a bit, like vanilla.

\--

That night they sit across from each other for their evening meal. They shouldn’t, really. He can tell they’re rousing suspicion from Leliana. Although, knowing the Spymaster, she likely not only   _ knows _ , but keeps a running tally of how many times he’s had her, _ and _ what positions they’ve used.

But every interaction they’ve had today has been so ludicrously  _ charged.  _ And he can’t deny that -- after what turned out to be an entirely unexpected and exhausting day -- he wants only to sit near her and hold her hand.

But it’s not possible.

So instead, he contents himself with passing her the salt cellar when she asks, and letting their fingers brush for a moment.

“Thank you, Commander.” She mummers, eyes downcast.

They sit, and a moment later he asks. “The salt, if you please, Inquisitor.”

This time their eyes  _ and _ their fingers meet.

He feels an absurd little bubble of warmth in his heart, despite the fact that his food is now, decidedly too salty.

“Delivery for you, Commander.”

The scout catches him mid-bite, and he tries to tell him to leave whatever it is in his office, but before he can, the scout drops the package on the table between himself and Trevelyan. It’s about the size of his lyrium kit, and wrapped in pale paper that has the same iridescent quality as the inside of an oyster. The accompanying letter -- a small square of plum that smells heavily of sandalwood -- is tucked into the wide white ribbon around the package.

He and Trevelyan both stare at the letter, and then, almost in tandem, their eyes flit up to each other. They drop their gazes, again in unison. He’s not sure if she’s blushing, but he can feel the heat on his own cheeks.

He tries very hard to ignore the package, and fails utterly.

Beside him, Varric raises a dark ginger brow. “Are you going to open that, or are you going to wait until it catches on fire from the heat of your blush?”

He glares the the Dwarf, and says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He probably should continue to ignore the letter, rather than let himself be baited. But after another moment of absolutely failing to do so, he reaches for it with a sigh, and opens it, trying for nonchalance, but likely, falling short.

It’s from a Baron Édouard Villechaize. His heavy, black signature occupies a large portion of the back of the plum-colored envelope. He remembers the man, vaguely. Tall and trim with a striped, purple waistcoat and absurdly large gigot sleeves. He’s surprised to have received even a note from the man, who, aside from one rather loud and bawdy joke, had  _ not _ lingered in his company.

He feels his mouth dry as he unfolds the letter. It is anticipation, or dread?

He stares at the words of the note so long, the others must think he’s been written a novel. But it’s short, only a single sentence.

 

_ Use this, and think of me. _  
  


His hand raises, hovers over the unopened box. 

He should not.

He absolutely should not.

Not with Trevelyan seated before him, lips still reddened from the rasp of his kisses.

Not with the Herald's Rest full to bursting, and the Chargers starting to sing drunkenly in the background.

Not with the thousands of perfectly good reasons he has to get up from the table, tuck the box under his arm and leave.

And yet.

And yet…

“Lover letters from Orlais?” Varric asks knowingly, a huge grin splitting his face. “To the most Ferelden man in all of Thedas?”

His hand clenches into a fist, and he does indeed tuck the box under his arm, and stand. “Quite.”

He nods at Trevelyan.

Perfectly reasonable for him to bid the Inquisitor farewell, would look strange if he didn’t.

And yet, he’s not quite out of earshot when Varric clears his throat, and leans over to her. “You know, if you’re going to pretend you two aren’t a couple, you’ll need to stop staring at his ass.”

He blushes, damnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I STRUGGLED with this one.
> 
> A. Plot keeps sneaking into my porn. (I find myself wondering about the character development as much as the smut.)
> 
> B. Never written Cullen's POV before, and found it quite a challenge. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thank you guys so, so much for your lovely comments and Kudos.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Finger-banging, Spanking, Rough Sex


	4. Use this and think of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the box...

It’s a butt plug. 

He snaps the lid of the box shut. “Maker’s breath.”

He’s fairly certain whatever is left in him of the shy Chantry boy, dies on the spot from embarrassment.

He looks again.  _ Why  _ does he look again?!

It’s rather ordinary sized -- as these things go -- and nestled in the plum velvet inlay of the box. He remembers seeing some of truly frightening proportions and shapes that had been confiscated at the circle. This offering is quite tame in comparison.

It’s obsidian, he thinks, if he looks closely he can see the dark, pearlescent sheen of the stone. It’s absolutely smooth, and tapers at the tip, widening to a gentle flare at the base, and, at the end of the handle, a wide flat stone. It must be cut glass. It can’t possibly be a diamond, can it?

He’s no great judge of such things, but he’s fairly certain he’s just been gifted the most elegant butt plug in all of Thedas.

And he’s expected to...

_ Maker. _

He has the irrational urge to fling the damn thing out the narrow window of his office. He nearly does. Only the thought of Trevelyan and her companions -- Vivienne in particular -- _somehow,_ _finding_ the damn thing in the snow and bringing it back to Skyhold like some obscene trophy, stops him.

Instead he buries it at the bottom of his personal trunk, resolved to forget entirely of its existence.

And he nearly does.

His office has been a flurry of activity. Requests. Requisitions. Rumors. Restlessness. The high from the Winter Palace is beginning to wear off. Though no orders have been given, he’s long since been accustom to the clairvoyant nature of armies. The men  _ know. _

The Inquisitor will be leaving soon.

And though he feels a thrum of satisfaction that the Inquisition will be getting back to  _ real work _ instead of all the frippery and politicking of Orlais… there is a deeper, answering hollowness to the thought of her departure.

He mutters a brief prayer to the Maker for her safekeeping. And the darkness inside him chuckles indulgently, as one does with small children, and wonders.  _ When has the Maker  _ ever _ answered your prayers? _

His steps falter, the thought like a punch to his chest.

It is all he can do not to find her, immediately, press himself against her, and linger until his fears melt away in her arms. Instead he pours over his maps -- such as they are -- of the Western Approach. Making notations of the prominent landmarks, ancient strongholds, rifts, darkspawn nests, and locations where patrols have been mysteriously disappearing.

He notes the possible strength of enemy forces: bandits, wardens, a nest of Varghests that Rylen described as “vicious little bastards, ugly as a broodmother’s teat”. He details out rumors compiled from Leliana’s scouts, his own soldiers and a strange Orlesian researcher who claims -- Andraste watch over us all -- that a  _ High Dragon _ is nesting nearby.

_ A fucking High Dragon. _

_ It is not enough _ . He thinks, looking at the little stack of drawings and records. Not nearly enough to ensure her safety.

_ You can never keep her safe. _ Reminds the dark voice inside him.

He knows.

Still, he will try.

It’s nearly dark when a messenger disturbs him. The pile of records beneath his fingers have grown, and for a moment he’s so jarred by the interruption that he can’t remember where he is. He stares at the messenger in the doorway, and his eyes blurr, struggle to focus, mind separating slowly from the work. There was something important about the old Chantry Markers he’d meant to research… and...

“Ser?” The messenger asks again.

He blinks, wondering if any of his own messengers think him dim-witted. He’s entirely sure Leliana’s do.

But the messenger -- a stout dwarf with a kindly face, and vibrantly red hair -- only raises her eyebrows a little. “It’s the twelfth night.” She repeats. “Your turn for tea, and… um, chess? …With the Inquisitor?” She pauses, her expression shifting into alarm. Misinterpreting -- she  _ is _ new to the Inquisition, after all -- the ferocity of his blush, for anger. “Shall I… er… shall I tell her you’re busy, Commander?”

_ “No!” _

The messenger flushes at the terseness of his reply, and they both stand there stupidly for a moment, red-faced.

“No,  _ thank you.” _ He tries again. “I…” He scrabbles at his desk, quickly, attempting to assemble his notes into some logical order, and simultaneously berating himself.  _ How _ had he forgotten?!

It is a tradition Trevelyan adopted shortly after arriving at Skyhold. A private engagement each night with one of her inner circle. One night in turn for each of her nine battle companions, and her three advisors. A time for drink and conversation with those she leans upon most heavily.

She drinks the heaviest on her nights with Bull, and hardly at all with Solas. There’s a different whiskey each turn with Blackwell; they sample a bit from their shared collection of drink. Varric, more often than not, turns  _ his _ night into a round of Wicked Grace, insisting that camaraderie is best maintained through the loss of one’s breeches, or one’s gold. Cassandra is rumored to read Varric’s novels to the Inquisitor over coffee and cocoa, though he cannot imagine that could possibly be true. Slightly less unbelievable are the ones suggesting that Vivienne has been teaching the Inquisitor how to dance -- though, given the way she waltzed with Florianne at the Winter Palace, it  _ is _ possible. Cole’s visits are usually short, and notable only because of their entire lack of food or drink. It’s rum, biscuits and gossip with Josephine. Complaints and cookies -- at least they are theoretically cookies, the Elven archer makes them herself -- with Sera. He isn’t sure what she drinks or discusses with Leliana, and he’s certain he doesn’t want to know. Same for Dorian, actually.  _ Doubly _ for Dorian.

The twelfth night in the cycle is reserved for the Commander of the Inquisition. A moment of privacy he’s treasured. Certainty between the bustle and danger of her campaigns.

At first it was just tea and military strategy. Then, tea, and stolen kisses. Now, it is tea and sex.

As much sex as can be reasonably managed, and frankly, very little tea.

How, how,  _ how  _ had he forgotten?

He realizes that he’s been glowering silently at his desk, and the messenger is still standing there, red-faced and looking very much like she thinks joining the Inquisition may have been a mistake.

“To work?” He suggests, inanely. The messenger nearly sprints out.

He pauses long enough to gather his notes of the Western Approach, and order his hair. Then, he forces himself to  _ walk _ across the stone bridge connecting his tower to the great hall. He stops for a quick word with Gatsi, who has finished most of the basic repairs around Skyhold and needs to be assured that the hole in his ceiling can wait. Then he crosses -- still very calmly -- the length of the great hall and raps smartly on the Inquisitor’s door, pauses a moment, and enters the bottom landing of her quarters.

But once the door shuts behind him he  _ sprints  _ up the stairs and flings open the second door, hardly pausing to knock.

Late as it is, the room is well lit; scattered with so many candles the wheelwright’s son in him frowns at the waste. His expression shifts though, as soon as he sees her.

She’s seated primly on the bed drinking a cup of tea. The gilded rim of the cup has a small chip, he notices with a strange clarity.

She is also completely naked, and  _ stunning _ in the candlelight. It’s a moment before he remembers to breathe. He makes a strangled sound, and feels himself start to harden.

She smiles demurely over her tea cup. “You are late, Commander.” She observes.“And very red.”

“My apologies, Inquisitor.” He rubs the back of his neck, the corners of his mouth turning up in a bashful smirk. He tears his eyes from her long enough to set his stack of papers neatly on her desk, pulls off his gloves, and greaves, and sets them neatly on the chair. Unhooks his breastplate and belt, watching her covertly. She’s turned away a little, the curve of her spine dimples just above her buttocks. He traces her curves with is eyes, gaze lingering where her figure swells. “Maker… you…” He clears his throat and mummers. “You are so very lovely.”

She glances at him over her shoulder, then away. But he catches her lips curving up into a smile, and feels a warmth settle in his chest, stronger, somehow that the flare of heat between his legs.

He removes his surcoat and shirt, folding them carefully over the back of the chair, toes off each boot and has his his breeches and smalls down around his thighs when she interrupts him.

“Your tea is getting cold.”

He snorts on his laugh, thinking, absurdly, that he has never drunk tea in the presence of a naked woman before. He smirks as he pours, the steam that rises is proof against her claim, and he wraps his fingers gratefully around the cup, feeling the warmth fill his palms. The tray is fully stocked: honey, sugar, cream, but he eschews such a frippery. Tea should taste of tea. He sips carefully -- it’s really quite hot -- and tastes the half-bitter bloom of it at the back of his tongue. Then he spies the letter propped up against the tray of biscuits, and, in his surprise chokes down a scalding swallow.

He swears thoroughly before he can stop himself, then utters a brief prayer of apology. Invoking the balls of Andraste's first husband is surely blasphemy of a sort. He hears the tinkle of Trevelyan’s laugh behind him and feels the back of his neck flush.

The letter is an unassuming square of cream sealed with a blob of blue wax.

He needn't open it, he knows. She laid it out. An offering. Not a demand. And he  _ knows _ what it says.

Foolishness.

Filth.

Creative euphemisms for testicles.

Words from the blackest regions of the Orlesian mind.

And yet he can feel heat coil in his belly at the mere sight of it. Curiosity licks up his thighs, and his cock thickens, a little. He sets is cup back down on the tray, and -- cursing himself as an utter fool -- tears open the envelope, and unfolds the letter.

 

_ Ser Cullen of Honnleath, _

 

_ I have a business proposition. I require your cock with the greatest urgency. _

  
  


_ “No.” _ He says firmly, and stops reading.

Trevelyan is at his side, laughing, practically before he can put the letter down. And when her bare breasts squash against his arm, he hasn’t the presence of mind to keep the letter away from her.

She grabs for it, eyes alight and delighted,  _ ‘“Ser Cullen of Honnleath,’”   _ She reads -- out loud of course. _ “‘I have a business proposition. I require your cock with the greatest urgency.’” _

_ “Maker.” _ He swears, and can feel his face go scarlet. The letters are  _ always _ worse when she reads them.

Her lips curve into a smile and she walks back to the bed.  _ “‘I must explain my dilemma. Requests have been flooding my shop, and I feel that I am bound to rise to fill the demand. It is my duty. Surely a man such as yourself, a Templar, --’” _

“Former Templar.” He corrects, automatically.

_ ‘“ -- a Commander of armies, can understand duty. It is the source of all honor for those who serve, even for we lowly merchants. _

_ I am an artisan, and have received many commissions for replicas of your erection for use in erotic play. --  _ Breathe, Cullen, you look like you’re going to pass out. --  _ My reputation for accuracy and excellence is unmatched, and I have no desire to pander such spurious reproductions as I have already seen. Thus, I must enlist your aid. _

_ In the name of duty, and of artisanal pride, I humbly request a detailed description of your cock. Your erect cock. Flaccidity is of no use to me. _

_ What is your length, precisely, when erect? How curved? Does it bend at all, to the left or the right? What is the largest part of your erection? Are you large-knobbed, or thickest at the base? How thick, Ser? Precisely. What is your maximum girth? Does your foreskin retract fully, or is it high and tight? The veins on your cocks, describe them. Do they bulge? Are your balls large? Wrinkled? Do they rest tightly against your body, or hang low? Which testicle sits lowest? Are you shaved at all? Pierced? _

_ Alternately, I could send my apprentice to gather the measurements. She has a keen eye for detail. _

_ I will, of course send you a sample, upon completion. _

_ Expectantly yours, and with endless gratitude, _

_ Messieur Fikric Landris, artisan sculptor and purveyor of Fikric’s Dicks in Val Royeaux.’” _

He doesn’t quite notice when she finally stops reading, he has long since clapped his hands over his ears in mortification. It is not simply his embarrassment for this  _ infatuation _ of Orlais’, it is also his own response to the letters -- even this one -- that has him wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Arousal is fairly obvious in nude men.

He feels her slide her hands over his, and very reluctantly opens his eyes.

_ “Breathe.” _ She insists again.

“I’d rather not.” He grumbles.

“I could reply, if you’d like.” Her smile is just this side of wicked. “I’ve a keen eye,  _ and _ rather more familiarity with the subject.”

He makes a pained noise and, just barely, resists the urge to bury his face back in his hands.

Then she’s kissing him, softly, tenderly. There’s the touch of an apology in it, though it’s no fault of hers that Orlesians are so…  _ Orlesian.  _ And the things they say…

_ Use this and think of me. _

His breath shudders into her open mouth, and she swallows the sound. The tenderness melts away with the suddenness of a storm, unearthing a rough, and ragged passion. He slants his mouth over hers, tongue slick and quick. Presses her back against the bed, and under him, until their bodies are flush against one another. The letter crinkles softly against his thigh, but he ignores such things, too busy losing himself in the heat and flavor of her.

He takes her hand and presses it between them, wrapping her fingers around his cock, and guiding them up and down.

_ “Faster.” _ He growls.

She  _ squeezes,  _ fist pulsing around the base of him.

It’s difficult to pull himself away from the sweetness of her mouth, from the tease of her tongue, but his lips travel up and down the column of her throat, and across her breasts. He drags his nails along the side of her ribs, and she jerks beneath his hands.

_ "Cullen…” _  She gasps as his teeth fasten over her nipple. “I…  _ oh!” _

He suckles her, rolls her other nipple between his fingers, alternating between teasing, and a demanding roughness that  _ takes _ as much as it gives. He shifts to taste her other breast, hand cupping, sliding through the wet prints left by his mouth. She shudders beneath him.

  
“I need…” She gasps,  _ “Require _ your -- ah! Cock…  _ Cullen!” _

A dark blonde brow arches. “Urgently?”

_ “Yes!” _

He smirks, and pinches both of her nipples, dragging his touch off the pointed tips, and takes himself in hand. She spreads her legs beneath him, already arching. He  _ drags _ the head of his cock up and down, through the slickness of her sex, teasing.

“No.” He breathes, and swings himself off the edge of the bed, dragging her closer, until her head and neck tilt, unsupported. He moves until he’s above her head, and thrusts his hips out and presenting his erection to her. “Open.” He commands.

She does, eyes wide and dark, and he presses his cock into her mouth with a long, low groan.

For a moment he’s unsure of the angle, her upper teeth scrape just a little, and his balls rest softly against her forehead. But he slides in and in, deeper than usual, and she doesn’t gag.

What’s more, the position keeps his hands free, and they roam down the column of her throat and across her breasts. Squeezing, kneading, fingers finding and working her nipples. She arches herself into his touch until it roughens and she gasps beneath him. He pulls both nipples up, stretching them, keeping the sensation sharp, but just this side of actual pain.  

He can’t judge her reaction from her expression, not with her mouth so full of his cock. He  _ feels _ it instead, in the way her breathing shudders, or the tongue against his balls suddenly falters.

Her legs part, back arching, and she grunts, hips writhing against the air, clearly frustrated.

He glides his touch down her sides, feeling the ripple of her ribs, the sudden taper of her waist, and the swell of her hips. He cups his hands under her knees and pulls them closer, bending her legs forward enough that he can reach her cunt. Grins at how slick he finds her.

He skims his touch over her folds, and she shivers beneath him. But the angle is disorienting, and when he tries to finger her clit he touches her anus instead. She gasps, chokes a little on his cock. He can feel her pucker clenching beneath his fingertips.

He thoughts drift immediately to the wooden box at the bottom of his trunk and the obsidian plug inside. He tries not to imagine sliding its thickness up inside her, tries not to imagine how she would gasp and squeal, tries not to think how he would tease her, pulling it in and out just for the pleasure of watching her squirm.

And most of all, he tries not to think of how much more she would have to take if it was, instead, a perfect replica of his dick.

He fails, utterly.

So he pushes down on her knees, a little, angling her hips, until he can see _ everything. _

_ “Maker’s breath...” _

She is open, and pink, and wet, and willing. He can see her slick glistening, caught in the dark smudge of her hair. Between the shadow of her buttocks, her arsehole puckers, small and tight. And for a moment he thinks he would give anything to know just  _ how small _ and  _ how tight. _

He traces it with his finger, a teasing circle that gets close, but never actually touches. She clenches, reflexively and he moans, repeats the gesture again, and again.

She makes a pleading sound, but her mouth is full of him, and he can’t tell if she wants him to stop, or wants  _ more. _

But he feels her fingers against his thighs, touching, but not pushing him away, and smirks in response.

He finds her cunt with his other hand, slips two fingers inside her, pressing against what he  _ hopes _ is the right spot. She shudders, and squirms a bit, but he holds her still. His hips naturally match the pace his fingers set, gliding in and out, unhurried, but deep. And  _ Maker _ , her arsehole quivers, constricting with every stroke, and he spills a little pre-come, watching.

He can feel her swallow. Her throat  _ squeezes  _ and his heart nearly stops.

_ “Sweet Maker…” _ He hisses, and spills a little more.

He’s so fixated on what he’s seeing and feeling that her orgasm takes him by surprise. She cries out suddenly, cunt rippling around his fingers. Her throat opens when she moans and he slips deep, nearly to the hilt, choking her. Her anus clenches tightly and he presses his thumb against it, pushing in a little, not enough to breach her, but enough so she  _ feels it. _

The sound she makes in response is rough and animalistic, a groan of pleasure from the very depths of her. And  _ Maker, _ he  _ wants _ to fuck her there.

Wants to.

Needs to.

_ Has to. _

The thought pushes him to the edge of his own climax, and he speeds up, suddenly rough, hips stuttering. His balls lift, high and tight and he means to pull out, but she swings her hands up over his hips, pulling him against her, keeping him in her mouth as his thrusts falter.

“I-I can’t…” He protests brokenly. “Maker, I... I’m going to--”

His mind blanks utterly and he can neither pray or swear, or even breathe. She holds him, takes him as deep as she can, and he makes a strangled sound as he comes in her mouth. He feels her strain for a moment as he splashes the back of her throat.

When she swallows his entire body lights up with pleasure.

He says things that aren’t even words, just half-broken sounds and sobs, but he’s not even sure what he meant to say, and shakes his head, dazed.

She chuckles, and the vibration rolls through his balls.

“Maker, I... I never --” He finally manages, panting. He can feel himself still coming and looks down, almost startled.  _ “There’s more.” _

She releases him, rolls onto her belly and opens her mouth.

He groans as he presses the tip of himself against her tongue. “You are going to be the death of me…” He strokes himself base to tip, squeezing out the last of his seed, watching as she makes a show of swallowing every drop.  _ “So beautiful…” _

There’s a smear of his seed near her mouth, and he wipes it away with a broad thumb. He touches her ear, affectionately. “You don’t even need the damn letters, do you?”

She doesn’t answer, just wraps her arms around him and pulls him into the bed. They wriggle for a moment, knees and elbows jostling until he settles her against his flank. His fingers trace the curve of her hip, tenderly. They are silent for a long, long while wrapped in their own thoughts and the pleasure of unhurried company.

“When do you think…” He stops. Can’t put to voice what he wonders.

“Tomorrow.”  

“Oh.” His voice breaks on the word, small as it is.

“Hey,” She turns to him, curls her knees into his side. “I love you.”

It draws a smile from him, every time. Even now, though now he feels the corners of his eyes prickle with tears.

It is the absolute last thing he wants to do. But he knows if he doesn’t leave now, he won’t be able to later. “It’s getting late.” He swings his legs out of the bed and scrubs his face vigorously, hoping she understands the disappointment that edges his voice. “I should… there’s things to do…”

“Sleep with me?” She asks. Her voice is very, very hoarse.

The line of his mouth twists reluctantly. Half a grin, half a grimace. “You have a very high opinion of my stamina.” He reaches out and strokes her throat lightly. “But you need rest.”

“No. Here. Just sleep.” Her voice falters and the last words are only a whisper. “With me.”

Her request tears something loose in his heart. The last time she slept in his arms was in the aftermath of Haven. Among the snowdrifts of the Frostbacks, he was terrified -- utterly, truly, to-the-bone  _ terrified  _ \-- that she was dying. And since then they hadn’t…

There had never been the opportunity.

“But…” He protests, weakly, he can already feel himself sinking back into the bed beside her. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to remember why they  _ can’t.  _ “Leliana…”

“Don’t worry…” She mumbles, already drifting off. “I’ll… protect you.”

He holds her close until she falls asleep, taking comfort in the smell of her hair, and the slow steady beat of her heart. It isn’t until, much, much later, when every candle in the room has gutted out, that he gives over to his fears, and grief that he cannot make the same promise in return; and  _ weeps. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dragon Age lore fact: The real reasons the mages rebelled: the Templars were stealing their butt plugs. Anders rivalry +45.)
> 
> As always, critiques & requests are welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter specific tags: anal plug (letter), rough oral sex


	5. Taste Every Freckle on your Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff incoming.

****Cullen is a light sleeper. She learns this early in the night. He shifts whenever she does, keeping her pressed up against his flank. Reaches a hand out to caress the curve of her spine as she curls her knees against his hip. Perhaps he’s hyper-aware of her, unused to a bed as wide and soft as hers, missing the sight of the stars he usually sleeps beneath. Or, perhaps he simply doesn’t sleep.

He makes love to her in the deep of the night.

She becomes aware of his intentions when his cock pushes its way between her legs and against the tight seam of her, nudging gently to gain access. She stirs, eyes still closed and chuckles, shifting in a way that she hopes actually helps him in his quest. She keeps drifting between unconsciousness and a sort of languid wakefulness, generally unsure where she fits at any given moment.

She feels him enter her. Or… maybe enter again. Cullen strokes slow and sure, glides the entire length of himself in and out, in and out, slow and steady, until the weight and slide of him inside of her is one continuous sensation. It pulls her, loose-limbed and drowsy, and though she barely moves, she can feel herself responding to his touch. The heat of his body against her matches the one deep at her core.

He fucks her like that for a long while, with slow, lazy strokes. The hardness inside her a counterpoint to the otherwise bonelessness of her being. She isn’t moving, just lays there, savoring the sensation, and wonders groggily if she should participate, at least a little more.

She tries to murmur something encouraging, but it doesn’t come out as words, just needy sounds, half-tinged with the complaint of disturbed sleep.

He chuckles, kisses her back, or her shoulders, or something. She’s having difficulty identifying specific parts of her own body, and the way he skims his touch over her -- belly, breasts, buttocks, never lingering long enough for her to orient herself -- doesn’t help. He seems _everywhere_ , pressed against her, inside her, fingers curling around her earlobes, mouth sucking against her throat. But gentle, so, so gentle. Touches light as a feather.

Even his voice is soft, low and growly, and he makes half broken sounds that aren’t really words either. But she distinctly hears him whisper _“Maker...”_ and _“...so wet…”_

She isn’t sure if she keeps drifting in and out of sleep, or if he’s pulled her to some place between the worlds where sensation is stronger than consciousness.

She hears herself moan, voice rising and tight, and though he’s kept the pace a slow, stroking caress, she realizes she’s about to come. That full-body warmth has vanished, replaced by a heat between her thighs that is pin-point bright and so sharp she nearly squirms away from it. Only she doesn’t. She presses herself against it, trying to bank the heat, only to have it burn, hotter still.

She feels him speed up, just a little, sliding his body up and away from hers. The suddenly cool air against her back is a shock that rouses her a bit more. She angles her hips up to meet his, and feels him thrust more deeply than before.

Cullen groans, gets a hand between his hips and her arse and _squeezes_ himself, tightly around the base of his cock. His voice rises, breaks a little, and she can tell he’s trying desperately not to come.

“Cullen…” She breathes, _“Cullen!”_

The strangled sound he makes in reply sends her over the edge, and she comes just as he pulls out, her cry of pleasure twisting into something desperate. “N-no! -- _Please!”_

Her back arches, hips rising, seeking friction, and his hand finds her sex, pins her down, grinding hard, as she writhes and breaks, truly. He pushes two fingers inside her, curling them high, pressing up, dragging forward, again and again, drawing out her climax.

He finishes them both off with his hands. She can see his fist, pumping furiously on his own cock, his cries rise and fall as he comes, spurting into the darkness off the edge of the bed.

Awareness comes back to her slowly. But eventually she has the presence of mind to notice that he’s kissing his way up the side of her hip, still breathing heavily, and that his fingers are still inside her, pumping gently, thumb skimming through her folds, refusing to let that last peak drop. She can feel the gentle spikes of pleasure when he thumbs her clit, pressing over, and over, slowing… faltering…

Her eyes begins to droop.

He sighs, deeply, contently, and they drop off to sleep like that, with his fingers still curled inside her cunt.

\--

When she wakes, she wonders if she’s ever been happier.

There are come stains on the floor, their clothing from the night before is strewn about the room, and the burly Ferelden in her bed has stolen her pillow, and the leg trapped beneath him has gone entirely numb. _But no,_ she thinks, _she has never been happier. Never._

She sighs, quietly, so as not to wake him, and rolls on her side.

Cullen is spread out in his sleep, open, and more peaceful than she has ever seen him. She’s _has_ seen him asleep before, but only at his desk, when it’s clear he’s worked through the night until he collapsed, face first -- and fully armored -- into his paperwork.

Now though...

Her eyes travel down the length of him, taking the opportunity to look -- _really look --_ at him.

His hair is a wild tangle of curls, one side sticking straight up, the other matted against his skull, far from the neatly ordered Commander he shows the rest of the world. His mouth is relaxed, not grimacing or smirking, bisected by that old scar he’ll never speak of. She nearly leans over and kisses him, but stops herself just in time. The column of his neck is shaded with stubble -- well, _more_ stubble than usual. Shoulders, chest, broad and mapped with scars. One particularly vicious looking one splays from his collarbone, down his arm and nearly to the inside of his elbow. An elbow, she notes, that is propped up on _his_ pillow.

She huffs a little under her breath and edges closer to him.

The soft, golden crinkle of hair at the center of his chest thins along his stomach, spouting thick and black below his navel, a veritable bush nestling the tender length of his cock. His balls peek out beneath, shy and wrinkled and blushing. The sheets are tangled around his knees, one foot pokes out near the bottom of the bed. The long toes twitch a little.

Cullen is beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. Beautiful, and strong, and fragile.

He shifts a little in his sleep, fingers rising to absently scratch beneath his balls. Jostled slightly, his cock thickens, foreskin stretching, then rolling back, exposing his sensitive head. Hesitant and unhurried, his cock hardens slowly, gracefully rising to greet the dawn.

She raises a single brow, intrigued. If she were a rogue she’d stealth and have him in the back of her throat before he realized.

But she isn’t, so she contents herself with _easing_ between his spread thighs, slowly, slowly, shifting her weight in small increments so as not to wake him. It seems only fair she pay him back for last night. _Both_ last nights. She slides her mouth over him, just the tip, using as little pressure as possible and holds him. She can feel his cock harden in her mouth, and sucks just a little, drawing a quiet groan from him.

He shifts, fingers tightening in the pillow.

She takes a bit more of him -- there’s more to take -- and keeps steady, gentle pressure, rocking him back and forth, deeper and deeper, until he’s fully hard.

She’s not sure when Cullen wakes, only when she glances up, he’s propped up on his elbows, golden-brown eyes wide open and _fixated_ on the lips -- her lips -- wrapped around his cock.

“Good morning.” She mummers, with a smile, meeting his gaze over the head of his erection.

 _“Every_ morning.” He breathes huskily.

She grins, tucking stray lock of hair behind her ears, and bends to take him in her mouth again. She sucks him slowly, swirls her tongue around the flared ridge dividing head from shaft. His toes curl on the upstroke as she starts to increase the pressure. When the first groan breaks from him, she tastes the accompanying spill of salt.

He lets her set the pace and the depth, doesn’t reach for her, but she can see the muscles in his chest jump and shiver. A flush creeps over his shoulder and down his belly as he fists a handful of the blankets.

Her throat is still a little sore from last night, so she has trouble taking him when his hips start to jut, pushing himself into her still swollen throat. She gags, forces herself lower, and then gags again.

He pulls her off, trailing saliva, and slants his mouth over hers without waiting to let her catch her breath. The slightly bitter taste of Cullen’s pre-come dances between their tongues.

“Sleep well?” Cullen smirks when they finally pull apart.

She kisses the scar on his mouth, again, for good measure. “You stole my pillow.” She accuses grumpily and straddles him. He’s hard as stone beneath her and she’s slick enough that she sinks down onto him with ease.

His cock slides _deep._

Cullen groans, as she takes him. “I have no defence.” He admits, voice thick. “You’ll just have to punish me.” He reaches between her thighs, but she pushes his hands away.

“Arms above your head.” She fixes him with a stern look when he hesitates. “Disobedient. Must I restrain you?”

He licks his lips, considering, clearly imagining such a fate. But in the end, he sighs, raises his arms, and grips at the headboard, like an obedient soldier.

She rides him. Steady. Strong. Tucking her feet beneath her so she can work the length of him. Raises her hips so high he growls a warning as he nearly slips out. His fingers tighten on the headboard, twice he nearly reaches for her, but he forces his hands still. It might have been kinder, she thinks to tie him down, give him something to fight against.

She watches him, the way his eyes glaze over, the way a flush creeps across his chest, the way his breathing hitches.

He bites off a groan.

She leans back a little, and his eyes drop down, fixating on the spot where their bodies join.

 _“Maker.”_ He swears.

She can feel his hips flex beneath her as he thrusts upward, and she reaches between her own thighs, fingers brushing briefly against his shaft, and then upwards against her clit. She plays with herself while he watches, growling his approval. She swirls her fingers over herself, playfully, but with a rising intensity.

Cullen never takes his eyes off her, not for a single moment. His hands fly off the headboard, meaning to grasp her hips, but he remembers, and forces them back again. Teeth clenching in frustration as she writhes against him.

She adjusts her focus, drags her fingers from her clit to her entrance and slips a finger inside as he thrusts within her.

Cullen makes a startled sound and flushes, hips faltering momentarily. His eyes open _wide_ when she beings to pump her finger, little counterpoints of motion to his own deep strokes.

“Another…” He orders, voice rough with arousal. “Add another.”

She does, and moans, feeling the stretch inside her.

 _“Maker…_ so _tight…”_ Cullen thrusts higher, deeper and she moves her fingers within, and that high, strained cry might have come from either of them.

Or both.

His hips still suddenly. The sound he makes is low, and dangerous. A warning. He rests his forehead against hers willing himself not to come.

He chuckles a little, and tips his head back, hands still against the headboard. “You… Maker…  I…” Cullen shakes his head as the words fail him. His iris is a delicate band of gold, eyes so dilated they are nearly black.  “I’m _close.”_

“Mmmm?” She withdraws her fingers, and slides them between his lips.

He freezes, eyes wide with shock. He can taste her, and swallows reflexively, with a groan. The headboard _creaks_ as he clenches his fists.

She slides herself up the full length of him, and down again. Slowly. _Deliberately._

 _“Wait._ Don’t.” He pants, thrashes. “I’m going to… going to…”

“Come inside me Cullen.” She presses her lips against him, tasting herself. “Please.”

 _“Maker…_ I-!”

He tears his hands away from their deathgrip on the headboard. She’s certain he’s going to push her off, but he grabs her instead, pulls her against him, and holds her in place. Cullen fucks her, hard and deep and comes, cock buried inside. His strangled cry is nearly a sob, and nearly a prayer.

She feels the flood of his seed, the warm rush of it, and feels herself tighten around him in response, a little jolt of pleasure hits her, and then another, and another. A throbbing clench as her cunt wrings him dry.

Cullen is, unbelievably, still coming, face bright red and shocked. He thrusts erratically, empty, but still orgasming, overpowered, and mummers something completely incoherent. A handful of thrusts, and he finishes with a broken roar. Seating himself as deep as he can within her, he presses his face into her neck, breathing heavily. His cock throbs deep within her and he moans under his breath.

She strokes his hair, kissing his temples, forehead, eyelids -- everywhere she can reach -- as his breathing slows.

“I shouldn’t have…” He pants brokenly. “Shouldn’t…”

“I wanted you to.” She insists, still kissing him.

He runs his hands down her back, cupping her ass, pulling her closer against him. Unwilling, for once, to separate.

She can feel a trickle of sweat slide between her breasts, and arches away from him, resting back on her arms. The grip on her hips keeps her in place, and the look on his face -- worshipful, and a little thunderstruck -- makes her wish she’d done it before.

“Look at you…” He whispers thickly. His index finger traces from her mouth down her throat, between her breasts, down, down her belly and the curly mat of hair between her legs, until it touches the point of their connection. He swirls his touch around his own half-hard cock, right at the seam where their bodies meet. She can feel herself quivering.

Her breath rushes out, whisper soft. An invitation.

He drags his touch up to her clit, and she moans, arching into his touch. Sparks of pleasure, high and bright, run through her body with every twitch of his fingers. He works the small swollen nub, heavy drags and slow circles until she’s panting, writhing beneath his touch.

She can feel his thickness within her still, the warmth of his seed in the pit of her belly, and the touch of his finger, pushing her higher, and higher…

“Cullen… please… I-   _please!”_

He’s breathing nearly as heavily as she is. _“Yes…”_ He hisses, eyes bright. “Come for me. _Come.”_

She does.

It hits her hard, steals her breath, and her mouth falls open on a silent scream. Pleasure jolts through her, and she draws her knees up, wailing. She can feel herself clench around him tightly.

“Maker, _yes.”_ He groans, watching.

His cock twitches inside her, interested.

It’s her turn to chuckle, breathlessly. And shiver, as he traces her folds one last time before withdrawing. A trickle of his come leaks out of her and he flushes, his fingers flutter like he means to touch her again, but instead he runs his hands through his hair and sighs, quietly.

There’s something small and sad in his voice, and she feels it too. A heaviness in her chest, like a stone under her heart. A sudden emptiness after so much _connection_.

It is the morning, now. Skyhold will soon wake, and she must leave for the Western Approach before noon.

They help each other wash and dress, a task slowed by frequent kisses, heartbreaking silences, and promises to avoid High Dragons, darkspawn, varghests and ill-tempered nugs.

When it’s time to leave, Cullen pauses at the door, cheeks colored with a ferocious blush. “I haven’t snuck out of a girl’s room before.” He admits, shoots her a lopsided grin, and then is gone.

\--

They are, of course, late to leave.

The horse she’d chosen from the journey cracked a hoof unexpectedly and Cullen had insisted upon approving the replacement himself. That, and the dozens of tiny delays made from attempting to move hundreds of bodies from one location to another meant it was late afternoon before the gathered troops were ready to march.

She and Cullen have already said their goodbyes, so there’s no need to look for him, and nothing she could say if she _did_ find him. But she looks anyway. Seeking out his distinctive burgundy surcoat among the sage green Inquisition uniforms.

She spots him almost immediately, and wonders if it is some trick of his to stand apart so in a crowd, or, if she is merely drawn to him, as an arrow to its target.

He’s already staring at her, a twisted expression of grief mixed with pride, his eyes fixed so intently that she has the strangest feeling that he’s trying to memorize her form and features, just in case…

_He can’t think…_

But he does. Of course he does.

Her heart breaks, a little.

She must have betrayed her distress, somehow, because he strides toward her suddenly. And though he keeps a respectful distance, she can feel him lean in towards her, and has to lock her knees not to lean back.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen nods curtly, hands folded behind his back, expression carefully blank. “The men have been training for desert terrain for the better part of a month now. They will serve you well.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Best of luck.” He reaches for her, and for a moment she half-thinks he means to embrace her, but he simply presses a letter into her hand.

She thinks he’s given her one of the Orlesian letters, but no. The stationary is simple, hand-milled, and completely unadorned. It has been cut by hand into a perfect square, and has _her_ name on it.

She recognizes his handwriting, and her heart squeezes.

_Oh, Cullen._

He’s already walking away, but stops so suddenly that she wonders if she’d spoken out loud. He turns, and though his expression is expectant, she sees the shadows already gathering in his eyes. He’ll _dream_ tonight, she realizes, and he’ll be alone when the nightmares find him.

Half-the army is heading with them to the Western Approach, they wait lower down the mountainside, near the barracks. The officers -- a large enough group themselves -- are in the courtyard, armored and ready, with messengers & scouts threading between the distinct groups like little eddies of a current. Her companions are there, below the arch of the portcullis, Bull’s great-ax flashes as it catches the sun. She and Cullen are at the center of the absolute press of people gathered, but she closes the distance between them in three steps, and kisses him.

Thoroughly.

He hesitates only half a heartbeat before he kisses her back, his mouth opening beneath hers.

She’s not sure how long it lasts, pressed together, sharing breaths, but when they pull away, absolutely every eye is on them, and the courtyard is filled with silence.

Sera reacts first, whooping, and shouts. “Hah! Knew it! Hawke, you owe me 10 silvers.”

The roar of cheers around them drown out Hawke’s answering shout.

\--

It isn’t until days later, after a near-constant stream of teasing and speculation that she regrets kissing him.

It’s not the kissing that’s the problem, or even the fact that their secret, such as it was, is now likely the talk of all Thedas. It’s that he’s back at Skyhold, with her disapproving advisors, errant Orlesian nobles, and _other_ half-an-army that would love nothing more than to gossip about their Commander -- and he’s facing it _all by himself._

Cullen may be one of the fiercest warriors of the age, but he buckles under such personal scrutiny. In many ways he’s one of the most private people she’s ever known.

And the way he _blushes_ when he’s teased, even a little… Well, she can’t help feeling guilty.

\--

It’s another week before she reads his letter.

She takes it out, every night, rolls it between her fingers, and thinks of him. The edges of the envelope are worn to the point of being frayed. The ink on the front has begun to flake away a bit, she traces the words written there lovingly, knowing it was his hand that made them.

_Inquisitor Trevelyan_

She savors this, the first gift he’s given her, and draws out the joy of it as long as she can.

But then she has a bad day. A very bad day. A day when the harsh sun and wind chap her lips until they finally split and bleed. A day where the pebbles fill her shoes faster than she can pull them out and they are stopping -- _again_ \-- because she can barely walk, let alone fight. A day where even the beasts of the Approach are against the Inquisition, and they’ve all been bitten or snapped at by every creature they’ve come across.

A day spent watching Wardens destroy themselves and each other.

A day where Blackwall storms off after dinner, to weep in his tent, wanting only solitude to comfort him.

She, at least, has Cullen’s letter.

They haven’t been lovers very long, really. She can still remember each encounter, count them, like pearls. It feels longer though, as if the intensity of their courtship has filled in every available bit of space inside her, until her memories without him feel like they belong to another.

It hadn’t been slow. _Slow_ is not a luxury she’s allowed anymore. They’d _crashed_ together almost from the first, the deep bruises in his soul recognizing the ones newly torn into hers. There was lust from the start. A desire to lose herself in his arms, and a loneliness within him that cried out for her touch.

So she touched him.

Frequently.

Not understanding that each time they laid hands upon each other, they laid the bones of a foundation that was stronger than passion, or companionship, and _even so,_ love had caught her by surprise.

After all, she’d been focused on other things. Rebuilding the wreck the anchor had made of her life, pulling the broken seams of Thedas back together again. Inadvertently becoming the nemesis of a villain who boasted God-like powers...

Washing demon blood off her favorite scarf…

All that.

And through all that, him. _Always._

Still, the intensity catches her off guard.

She had tried not to imagine the words he’d written to her. Tried to just be happy he’d written at all. Even so, it’s a bit of a shock to actually _see_ the letter she’d been fawning over for the past few weeks. The spidery hand, bold, but full of crossed out words and phrases. A dark blotch in the corner as if he had tapped the quill against it as he thought. The formality of his salutation, broken at once by his ardor.

 

_Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

 

 _My love. I have no great talent for_ ~~_letters_ _poetry_~~ _this. I had thought to send you away with one of The Letters… but cannot trust the manner of_ ~~_filth_~~ _sentiment found therein. I would not risk sending you to battle with_ ~~_Orlesian descriptions of my genitals._ _Maker._ _Sorry._~~ _\-- the things of which they write. For the sake of common decency, if nothing else._

 _Or, perhaps I should apologize for_ not _including a letter. I know they make you laugh and_ ~~_inspire you_ ~~ _there is little in the world I love more than the sound of your laughter. I suspect there will be little laughter in the Approach._

~~_So,_ _Therefore,_~~

_I would taste every freckle on your body, if you’ll let me._

~~_Sorry._~~

 

_Yours Always,_

~~_Commander_ ~~ _Cullen_ ~~_Stanton Rutherford_~~

 

_postscript_

_Please remember that I love you, and that you are the only thing in the world that brings me joy._

 

_post postscript_

_Be safe. I beg you._

 

  
She presses his signature to her lips, gently, so as not to smudge the ink. And when she dreams that night it is of strong arms around her and a head of golden curls tucked securely beneath her chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: oral sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering


	6. I Want Only to Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen masturbates.

****Cullen meets her at the gates. Shoulders his way through the guardsmen gathered there and has her in his arms before she’s even halfway off her horse.

 _“You’re back.”_ He murmurs thickly into her hair. “You’re…”

“Yes.” She sways with weariness -- they’d ridden through the night at her insistence -- and leans into him.

He’s shaking. A fine tremor that runs through him, making the fur of his mantle flutter. She’s suddenly aware that they are both very close to collapsing… At the gates of Skyhold. In full view of the Inquisition.

Cullen must come to the same conclusion at the same moment because he swings one of her arms over his shoulders and half-carries, half-ushers her up the stairs, across the battlements, and into his office. Which is closer than her chambers, if only marginally so.

The door barely shuts behind them before he is kissing her. Hands cupping her face he kisses her absolutely breathless. She feels a wetness on her cheeks, and isn’t sure if they’re her tears, or his. But it doesn’t really matter.

For several long, sweet moments, nothing matters -- not the Wardens, not the breach -- nothing, except his mouth against hers.

She’s nearly dizzy when he finally, finally pulls reluctantly away, and rests his forehead against hers.

“You’re back. You’re safe.” He breathes. She can tell he’s still trying to convince himself it’s true.

“Yes.” She whispers again, and pulls away a little, just enough that she can look at him.

He’s paler, more ragged, and there are deep blue smudges beneath his eyes. She brushes one with her thumb, willing it away. “Was it terrible?”

“Yes.” He admits, and kisses her again. _“Maker,_ I’ve missed you.”

And suddenly the weeks without him hit her like a punch to her chest, an awful writhing mass of emotions -- exhaustion, loneliness, rage, terror -- that she can’t quite handle or contain. Her breath catches on a sob, and the anchor flares emerald-bright, casting harsh shadows around the small office.

She says his name. It’s the word _she_ uses as a prayer.

And as always, he answers.

But at his touch -- a hand on her hip, nothing more --  something slips free and drops like a red-hot coal through her core.

_Desire._

_“Please…”_ She arches against him. “I need… I need...”

He grips her waist and pulls her, backing them both against his desk. He perches against it, pausing only long enough to remove his breastplate, and surcoat, and to unlace his trousers.

 _“Hurry.”_ She keens softly, and he chuckles.

Cullen pulls himself free of his breeches, cock already hard and hot against the homespun of his tunic. He hikes her robes around her thighs and pushes her smalls out of the way, lifting and impaling her on his erection.

She gasps. Squirms. Shudders. And, settles against him with a sigh.

Cullen cups her arse in his two hands, lifts her as though she weighs nothing, and glides her up and down his cock. She’s on top, but _he_ controls everything. How fast. How deep. He angles her hips _just so_ , rocking them so each stroke rubs against her clit.

She makes a high-pitched, achey cry, and tries to squirm away. But he holds her fast, presses his mouth against hers and swallows the sound.

She can feel the strength in him. The way his shoulders shift, thighs hard beneath hers, the grip of his hands… He touches her so gently, always so gently, that sometimes she forgets how _strong_ he is.

Mostly though, she feels _him._ His cock. The way its heavy, thickness anchors her, steadying. The gentle burn and stretch as she takes him again after so long. He _throbs_ as he slides in and out, and she feels every twitch with a startling intensity.

He murmurs her name as he fucks her. Over and over, a litany that breaks down into syllables, then sounds, then just the cadence of his breath and his hips.

She comes just like that. Impaled and overpowered. The intensity of her orgasm is such that her back bends into a deep arch as it hits her. Nearly unseating them both. But he grabs her shoulders and presses her against him, keeping her from falling.

“I’m… _Please…”_ He gasps into her neck, hands tangled in her hair. “I want… Can I… can I come inside you?”

She tries to speak.

Can’t.

But he must feel her nod, because a moment later he cries out sharply, and empties himself inside her. Fills her to the absolute brim. She can feel his seed leaking out around his final thrusts.

“I love you… I love you so, so much.” He finds her mouth with his, as his hips still. “I love you.”

She blinks slowly. Tries to respond, but can’t seem to form any thoughts, or words. Just sighs deeply, and falls asleep in his arms.

\--

The next morning she wakes in a bed she doesn’t recognize.

And she’s alone.

The disorientation lingers longer than it should. Every muscle from her shoulders down aches from her time in the Approach. And while she’s certain she doesn’t have sand just _everywhere_ anymore, the memory of it is so strong that she can feel the grit of it between her teeth, and under her nails, and the tickle of tiny grains against her lashes.

Somehow though, she still feels _safe._

It takes her a while to recognize the room as Cullen’s. It’s ramshackle, sparsely furnished, and somehow manages to look _damp._ The floor has a hole in the far corner where the wood has worn away, or rotted through. She suddenly understands Gatsi’s insistence on repairs to Cullen’s tower. If he’d told her it was more than just the hole in the roof…

And she wonders, for the first time, what happens when it rains.

Or snows.

 _“Oh, Cullen.”_ She mummers, fondly.

A head pops up, peeking over the rim of the mattress.

She makes a sound that’s probably too choked off to be considered a scream, and slaps the head away in reflex, a moment before she realizes it’s Cullen.

 _“Ow.”_ He says. Glowering at her under his disheveled nest of curls.

 _“Void,_ Cullen!” She snaps, from the opposite side of the bed. Where she may have flung herself in panic. “What are you _doing?!”_

“I _was_ sleeping.” He glares, lifting himself stiffly onto the bed, a paragon of offended dignity.

“On the _floor?”_

“You needed rest.” He explains, gravely. “And my bed is very small.”

She feels small pain in her heart. Like a bruise. And thinks, for a moment that she may cry. But the moment passes, and instead she wraps her arms around him and pulls him down next to her. “How did you get me up the ladder?” She wonders, voice only a little thick.

He turns and kisses her, squarely between her bare breasts. “Templar secret.” He says smugly, and smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are you alright?” She strokes the curls at his temple, smiling, a little at the way his ears turn pink. “You’ve seemed… bothered.”

“Yes... No. I-” He shrugs, shakes his head dismissively. “It’s nothing. I…” He takes a deep breath, and lets it out through his nose. His brows pinch together in a frown. “Everything that was ever good in my life, I’ve eventually lost. I thought…you...” He bends his head to the tops of her breasts, unable to say the words.

Her heart squeezes and she tightens her grip on him.

_I’m not going anywhere._

It’s what she wants to say.

\--

As usual there’s an endless number of tasks to address at Skyhold. She needs to check on Dennet’s horses; show Dagna and Helisma a few artifacts she picked up; write her official report on the incident at the Ritual Tower with the Warden mages; schedule a war council meeting...

Still, she lingers in Cullen’s tower watching him dress for the day. So she’s still there -- looking rather embarrassingly bedraggled, and very much like she’d spent the night -- when a messenger arrives bearing a stack of requisitions, and an absolute _armload_ of Orlesian letters.

The messenger, an Elf, cheeks dotted with freckles and Dalish tattoos, startles when he sees them, catches his foot against the edge of the carpet, and drops everything he’s carrying. The requisitions are -- thankfully -- wrapped in twine, and drop with a solid thump.

The letters, aren’t.

They scatter like bits of confetti. There are dozens. It’s an absolute explosion of color. Blues, golds, every shade of green imaginable. The whole office instantly reeks of perfume.

Cullen and the Elf looks at each other, aghast. It’s difficult to tell who’s more mortified.

 _“What-?!”_ Cullen sputters. She can already hear the clouds gathering at the edge of his voice.

“Er…” The Elf clearly panics. He may have actually shit himself. “They did something with the supply lines -- fixed them! But all the mail built up… a-and it’s alright now, because it’s here now, and you have it, and the Inquisitor-!” He throws her a pleading look, which Cullen clearly misinterprets.

 _“Out!”_ Cullen snaps.

The Messenger practically sprints out.

Cullen peers around the wreck of his office, and runs his hands through his hair, swearing inaudibly under his breath. He bends down and starts scooping the letters into a great pile. Peers under his desk to find the few that had scattered there.

There’s a letter on her boot. Sort of a sagey green. Nearly the color of Inquisition uniforms. She opens it, and he freezes at the sound of the letter tearing. She reaches into the envelope but can’t even pull it out before Cullen is closing his fist over it, pulling it out of her hand.

 _“Wait.”_ He says.

She stiffens, slightly.

“No. It’s not…” He shakes his head. “Our recruiters are leaving today. I _have_ to oversee their deployment in an hour. I… After lunch?” He asks, reaching out to touch her face. “Can I come to you then?”

“No.” She leans in to kiss him briefly. “You can come _for_ me then.”

\--

Cullen’s at her chambers a whole hour early. He’s managed to secure a large, lidded glass jar, which he’s filled with all the letters that were scattered in his office. _En masse,_ the _smell_ of them is a little overwhelming. Too many floraly-sweet-citrusy notes clashing together. It’s like a hurricane of butterflies in a bottle. Bright and beautiful alone, but edging towards a cacophony together.

He sets the jar on her desk, takes the half-opened letter out of his pocket, and very deliberately, finishes opening it.

She can feel her brows raise in surprise. He must be trying to make amends, of a sort, for stopping her earlier that day. She goes to him, and presses her hands against his hip bones, waiting.

The letter trembles in Cullen’s hand as he reads. He stops twice, to clear his throat and blushes alarmingly. But he manages to get to the last page, _and_ appears to be breathing. So it’s a victory of sorts.

When he reaches the end he considers the note for a long, silent moment, before passing it to her with a muttered, “Maker’s Breath.”

It’s written in a beautiful flowy script, so decorative it’s a little hard to read.

 

_My Fereldan Commander,_

_I watched you from afar at the ball. Stunning. Surrounded by admirers. I watched. Wondered how many of them you would take to your bed. Five? Ten? A hundred? You could have as many as you desired. They would have you, every one. Spread their legs and hearts wide, and let you use them as you will._

_I watched. I watched you. So strong, so beautifully formed. Perfection made flesh. Strong. Gentle. No lover could ever match you in figure or in grace._

_They will ask you to their beds. Many likely lovers. But I never will._

_I want only to watch. You._

_Your hands on your own flesh. Strong as Templar steel, soft as Andraste’s Grace. I want to watch as you touch yourself. Want to witness every caress, every sigh, every prayer that tumbles from your lips. I want to watch you come and shiver, and spend your Ferelden seed into your own hands._

_I only want to watch._

_Yours,_

_Baron Jean-Louis Gachet of_ _Auvers-sur-Oise_

 

It can’t be more than the span of a heartbeat between the time she finishes the letter and when she presses her lips against his earlobe and whispers. “I want you to take off all your clothes, and touch yourself for me.”

He grips her arm, and trembles, fighting for self-control. She can feel his cock through his breeches, already rock-hard against her stomach.

She wonders if she’d pushed him too far, if he’s just going to throw her on the bed, tear off her clothes, and…

 _“Maker have mercy.”_ Cullen whispers raggedly. And drops his head onto her shoulder for a moment. His lips move against the curve of her neck, as he mouths a silent prayer. Then, with an obvious effort, he pulls away.

His eyes are already glazed, and dark, but they darken further when she drags her desk chair over and sets it deliberately in front of the bed.

She sits, waiting.

Cullen takes deep, deep breath and starts undressing.

He does it like a soldier, pulling off his gloves and unfastening his greves with such a matter-of-factness that she grins.

“You’re laughing.” He notes, grumpily, unbuckling his breastplate, and setting it aside.

“Not at all.” But her smile widens, and her eyes are bright.

He doesn’t tease, as she might. Doesn’t let his touch linger, or shoot her heated glances. Doesn’t display himself in any seductive manner. But watching him is still undeniably _sexy._ And when he’s down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, her breath catches as he raises the edge of his tunic to unfasten his belt.

He pauses, and arches a brow at her. Mouth pulling up into a smirk.

His motions start to slow, and her eyes stop looking at _him,_ and fixate on the _parts of him_ that he slowly bares. By the time he grasps the hem of his tunic and pulls it over his head she’s perched at the edge of her chair, ogling him shamelessly.

Cullen flexes deliberately, and she lets out the gust of a surprised laugh. Meeting his eyes for the first time since… well, since he started taking off his clothes.

“You are so beautiful.” She mummers.

He flushes, with a soft “Maker’s Breath.” And rubs the back of his neck.

The movement makes his shoulders bunch, and she drags her eyes up and down his torso, appreciatively. He _is_ golden. The hair on his chest and beneath his arms, only a shade or two darker than the curls on his head. He’s tauntly defined, the bulk of his shoulders and chest gets leaner around his middle. The deep V of muscle that hangs from his hipbones disappears below the waistband of his breeches. There’s a _very_ prominent bulge at the juncture of his thighs.

He casts her a speculative glance, and runs his fingers lightly down the length of his abdominals, pausing to play with the dark trail of hair that forms below his navel. He hooks his fingers under his waistband, and _looks_ at her.

She swallows hard.

Had she really thought him incapable of a striptease?

Heat rises to her own cheeks as he unlaces his trousers. Slowly. Deliberately. And when he pulls out his cock, fully hard, and already beading with pre-come she makes a rather embarrassing sound.

Cullen smirks.

She rather hopes he’ll abandon everything and make her suck him off. But instead he kicks off his boots and trousers and moves towards the bed. She shifts on her chair as he settles himself. She can feel the wet heat of her arousal between her own thighs.

Cullen lays back upon the pillows, legs spread, the dusky shadow of his balls hang below his erection.

“Wider.” She encourages. “I want to see you.”

He obliges, tipping his hips up so she can see between the crack of his arse. Cupping his balls out of the way so his taint, and the shadowed pucker of his anus are fully exposed.

She makes an appreciative sound, and he flushes, grips himself, and with no other preamble, begins to stroke.

He has a _very_ practiced hand, she notes. He twists slightly on each upstroke, fingers curling tightly around the head of his cock, strokes, and strokes, then adjusts, turns his wrist to an overhand grip and tugs his cock firmly to one side. He rolls his balls with his other hand, pushing them up around the base of his cock in simulation of an orgasm.

He groans, and does it again.

His limbs are long, and relaxed, save for the arm that’s pumping, and for a while she darts her gaze from his cock, to his face, and back again, drinking in the sight, and sounds of Cullen pleasuring himself.

He flushes, a constant tide of red that surges and recedes as he settles into a comfortable pace. His teeth fix on his lower lip, and his hips shift, a little, pumping up into his own hand. The noises he makes are soft and low-pitched, naturally guarded.

Heat purls in her loins, and she shifts, trying to ignore it. “What are you thinking of?” She asks to distract herself.

“You.” He says matter-of-factly.

“Always?” She arches her brow.

His cheeks flush and his hand stutters momentarily. “Mostly.” His eyes dart away, then back to her. He looks for a moment like he might elaborate, but doesn’t.

She can feel the edge of the chair pressing against her, and she rubs herself against it, slightly.

Cullen’s eyes drop instantly from her face to the telltale motion of her hips.

“What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself?”

 _“Things._ ” He grits out. The hand on his cock speeds up, a little. _“Doing_ things to you… filthy things.”

“Cullen…”

“You’ve… the loveliest arse and...” He stops speaking, flushes down to his navel and won’t meet her eye. For a moment she’s afraid she’s offended him somehow. He’s already so open, and vulnerable, masturbating while she sits fully clothed in observance. But he’s breathing heavily, and his toes are curling, and she realizes he’s imagining…

“Tell me.” She begs. The ache between her legs is high and bright and she slides her hand under her waistband and over herself, trying to ease it. “Please.”

Cullen gasps, leaking pre-come. _“Maker,_ I can’t even _think_ when you…” The muscles of his belly tighten reflexively as he watches her play with herself. He groans. Aroused. Frustrated.

“Please Cullen, please.”

“I…” There’s something _wild_ in his eyes. Nearly unhinged. “I think of you…” The head of his cock is an almost angry red, poking up beneath his fingers. He rubs his hand against the tip, using his own pre-come to ease the slide of his strokes. “I think of bending you over my desk…” He groans, as her fingers twitch. “Sliding… _Maker…_ Sliding myself between your cleft…”

 _“Yes…_ please!” Her hips arch in response to her words. Her free hand slides up, cupping her breast. Pinches her nipple through the fabric of her blouse. “A-And?”

The hand on his cock slows, and he squeezes viciously around the base with his other hand. But his hips thrust up a little into his own grip, traitorous. “And fucking you… fucking you in your ass. Balls deep… and _hard.”_

She moans.

He’s nearly lost, pulls down on his balls in an attempt to keep from coming. Panting. Needing to tell her… “Pounding… that tight little hole... until you _wail.”_

She comes first.

Barely.

The sound of her cry is drowned out by his much louder shout. She has to remember to keep her eyes open and watch as he comes. He shivers, back bending, and unravels before her, his seed shooting in thick pulses across his belly. He rubs the pad of his thumb, in quick little flicks over the head of his dick and his knees bend, drawing up as he roars.

She’s there. Cups his balls tenderly as the last bit of pleasure rocks through him. Swipes her tongue through the seed splattered on his belly.

He makes a strangled noise, still stroking himself slowly. His foreskin rolls over the red-sticky tip of him, and he lets go. Panting. Spent.

She kisses around his navel, licking the spend from his belly, murmuring praises and endearments. She cleans a path down to his cock, and mouths tenderly at his half-hard shaft, tongues his slit.

He groans, and his fingers claw at the bed a little.

At last she pulls back, with a huge grin on her face, and wipes at her chin. “Ferelden seed.” She quotes wickedly, and kisses him.

He snorts. And bends his head to hers again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a tublr NSFW Headcanon request -- my most common one -- for Cullen jacking off.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: vaginal sex, striptease, masturbation


	7. I Belong Entirely to Your Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iorn Bull Greatly Approves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian Letter in this chapter (and thus the chapter title) was written by Trewestriandta, so don't forget to shower them in Kudos. 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6187717

****Five more letters arrived today.

They sit on his desk. Startling splashes of color and decadent perversions against a background redolent with sturdy practicality and work ethic. They are a distraction, really. He should put them away in a drawer, not display them like trophies of obscene correspondence.  

He _should_ burn the filthy things. Out of principal.

Instead he sighs, scoops them into his pocket, and heads across the battlements and towards the Great Hall. It’s busier than usual for this time of night. By his reckoning, Trevelyan should still be busy drinking with Bull, which is just as well. He wants to see her, but he wants to slip the new additions into her collection without being seen; _more._

But it’s obvious that this is a very poorly conceived plan, when, even before he can knock and push the lower door to her chambers open, several someones whistle, and Sera yells: “Give it to her _raw,_ Cully!”

He claps a hand over his face, forgets to knock and blunders in, cheeks burning.

 _“Damnit, Rutherford.”_ He mutters, belatedly, and swears he can hear the Elf’s high, semi-manic laughter through the door.

He’s so preoccupied with trying to figure out how he can possibly leave without having to go back through the Main Hall -- perhaps he can fashion a rope from her bedsheets and  climb down into the garden -- that he forgets entirely to knock, or be surprised when Trevelyan’s voice greets him.

“Cullen?”

“Yes, I- _Maker’s Breath.”_  
  
She’s in her bath. The huge wood one, the inside draped with linens to protect her from any stray splinters. He can see very little of her, truth be told, but the sight stops him in his tracks, heart fluttering. She’s carefully sponging off one of her arms, and pauses for a moment to grin at him. Her motions aren’t the least bit seductive, yet somehow it’s the most seductive thing he’s ever seen.

His cock throbs.

He wonders if she’d protest if he tried to clamber into the tub with her.

He doesn’t though. Remembering his original intent he crosses over to her desk, to where the letters sit, relegated to a large glass jar. He turns so his back is to her, blocking her view, and he slips the letters from his pocket inside.

He’s not sure if it’s his close proximity to the jar, or if she’s just psysic, but...

“There’s a letter opener on the desk.” She says casually.

He clears his throat and glances at her, but she’s busy pinning her wet hair up and off her neck. From this angle, he can only see from her shoulders up. But the delicate shape of her raised arms, glistening and wet, the dark spiral of wet hair against her throat…

He can feel his cock fill with blood, and _Maker,_ he suddenly wants very badly to push himself down her throat, deep enough to gag her. He coughs, and flushes, and spends a minute trying to determine if he’s more embarrassed by that brief fantasy, or aroused.

 _This._ He thinks, darkly. _This is the trouble with the damned letters._

Still. He takes the topmost letter out of the jar. It’s heavy, and has a faint metallic clink to it. There’s _something_ inside. He sets it back, remembering -- which, embarrassingly only makes him harder, _and_ _redder_ \-- the anal plug at the bottom of his trunk. He’s not sure he’s ready for another Orlesian present.

He chooses another letter. This one a soft pale blue, nearly periwinkle. It’s from Madam du Neiges, a woman he remembers, faintly, mostly due to her gilded vulture-esque mask and annoyingly high-pitched laugh. She seemed delighted to stand at his elbow for half the night, giggling. At the time he’d thought her very drunk.

He opens the letter -- _Maker,_ it goes on for pages! -- and goes to hand it to Trevelyan, but she waves him away with wet hands.

“Read it to me.”

He grits his teeth. But, it can’t be any worse than when she does it…

 _“To the Masterful Commander Cullen Rutherford,”_ He rolls his eyes, and sighs. He can already feel himself blushing -- well, blushing _harder--_ and risks a glance at her. But Trevelyan, is still busying herself with her bath.

 _“It was my utmost pleasure to steal even a brief few moments of the evening from those that would have monopolized your time.”_ He reads. _“Not that I can blame them for their fascination with such a rare, mythical creature such as yourself. It is such a fleeting occasion that the Court is presented with a Lionheart such as yourself, the proud crest of your golden hair was a crown amongst the cheap jewelry those that fluttered around you._

 _I would have lost my composure had I been granted more time with you, as even our simple conversation left me with an unforgettable impression of your elegant loquaciousness_ \-- Maker’s Breath.” He interjects. “I can’t have said more than _three words_ to the woman!” He rubs the back of his neck, glaring at the letter. Then sighs, continuing “-- _And… I am firmly convinced that you are a master orator.”_

Their eyes meet over the top of the letter. He already knows what she’s going to say.

“You are _very_ _good_ with your mouth, Cullen.” She agrees with a grin.

He sighs.

_“But ever since our too brief time together I have been unable to wash my mind of the image of your imperfectly perfect lips. The scar that bisects the bow caught my attention and the delicate blush of your bottom lip beckoned to mine own mouth devilishly. Would the scar feel rough against skin accustomed to the hard caging of a well-wrought corset? Or would the sensation of your mouth ghosting over my skin feel instead as…”_

He trails off as she shifts in the tub. He catches a glimpse of her breasts, wet and full and… why couldn’t this be a letter about ravishing her in the bathtub?

 _“...As silken as the words that tumbled from you on our brief night? I can only imagine, and know that I belong entirely to your lips.”_ He snorts.

 _I belong entirely to the dream that is the sensation of you pressing hot, wet kisses to the pulse point of my neck while your hands deftly spill my body forth from the wretched containment of my Orlesian silks. Without ever having tasted you I know that your mouth would consume me easily, each delicate bite down my collar bone and between the valley of my breasts would be an exquisite torture. The laving of your tongue against the edge of my…_ of my…”

A tell-tale sound as Trevelyan rises from the bath, dripping.

He tries to look everywhere all at once. Greedy for the sight of her. Her breasts wobble gently as she steps out of the tub, and he bites back a groan. He knows if he put his mouth on them they’d be warm and wet as the rest of her.

“Of my…” He loses his place entirely and has to run his finger down the length of the letter, searching. “...Uh… the… _edge of my navel a tease and a promise. I would have you know the taste of the very heart of me, Sir. The agony of pleasure I would endure under your teeth, the harsh satisfaction of your mouth against my skin. I know with a certainty that is Divine faith that you would address the…”_

He catches a glimpse of Trevelyan’s backside as she bends over to dry herself, and loses his place again. _“...You would address the…the need between my legs…”_ He flushes and adjusts himself discreetly. _“...with a thorough reverence that would destroy me.”_

_That image of you tears me apart and builds me back up again. Knowing in my heart how you would look, body fully clothed even as I...am bared.”_

The breath rushes out of him. Trevelyan stands before him, naked, still glistening wetly in spots. He’s fully armored, hasn’t even taken his gloves off, and it’s obvious from the expression on her face that this point is not lost on her either. It’s a parallel, of sorts to last night. When _he’d_ been the one spread out for her...

_“You, lovingly, carefully using the silks of my own gowns and clothes to… to tie my legs wide apart for you as you knelt between them. The hot puffs of your breath as you smell the beginnings of my ardor, and then the feel of your battle calloused fingers stroking through the soft hairs to expose my gentle lips to your scarred and beautiful attention.”_

Trevelyan makes a small, breathy sound. Already backing herself towards the bed.

_“You would be mockingly gentle at first, as coy as you pretended to be in our brief time together, but I could see the ferocity you tried to hide. You would kiss and stroke my skin to a sensitive peak and then devour me with every pull of your teeth and stroke of your tongue. I would wait and come apart under your attention again and again, a slave to your command. Your lips would sear my skin, your fingers would play the music of pleasure, mark me as yours. And when you finally shed your clothing and sunk your no doubt elegant cock into me you would claim me as yours._

_This I know my dear, Lionhearted Commander. I am yours truly, bewitched by your lips and awaiting your desire.”_

When he stops reading it take him a moment to realize he’s gotten to the end. He can hear his own breathing, ragged and needy, and he hasn’t even _touched_ her yet. Only _imagined._ He drops the letter to the floor, and rubs his face with his hands trying to distract himself from the throb of his cock… trying to maintain enough self-control to -

“There’s a scarf you can use on the chair.” She says.

Her voice is so husky that he turns, can’t even _look_ at her. The scarf is a bright yellow, nearly metallic, and soft to the touch. It’s her favorite, he knows. He presses it to his face briefly, and the scent of her suddenly surrounds him. There’s something bright and clean that reminds him of clover and rain, the sharper scent of ozone that he’s come to associate with magic, the lingering smokiness of burned things, and the high sweet smell of vanilla.

He looks at her, speculating. The scarf in his hands is not enough to tie her to the bedposts, like the letter suggested. It’s too short. And there’s only one. He could only restrain her against something like…

“Come here.” He growls, kicking the chair towards the center of the room.

Thankfully she doesn’t question him -- he’d likely only embarrass himself if he had to explain. She just seats herself on the chair at his gesture with the slightest raise of her brows. He kneels before her, sneaking a quick glance at her cunt as he does so, and ties the scarf around one of her ankles, arranges her legs so they drape _over_ the armrests and threads the scarf beneath the seat, securing it to her other ankle.

He sits back to survey his handiwork. She’s so beautiful like this. Legs thrown wide, cunt open. Bound to his pleasure. There’s something gloriously _filthy_ about having her tied to a chair.

And _Maker,_ she’s already _dripping._

Her hand tentatively drops down to her clit, and he hisses in disapproval. Tonight, _he_ is the only one allowed to tease.

He stands, and moves behind her, unfastens his belt, and pulls her wrist together, and over her head. He binds them at the back of her neck, and threads the belt through the -- rather convenient -- hand-hold built into the top of the chair.

By the time he moves back to face her, he’s hard as stone, and there’s a small damp spot on the front of his trousers. He cups himself.

“Cullen…” She whines, and writhes, testing her bonds. The way she’s tied she can barely even shift her hips.

He smirks, hands dropping, unlacing his breeches, and pulls out his dick and balls. Seeing her like this, helpless, entirely at his mercy, unleashes a dark edge to his passion. He could do anything, absolutely _anything_ to her right now, and there’s nothing she could do about it. He thinks, stroking himself, and drops to his knees.

She moans. Maker, _she moans,_ and he hasn’t even touched her. He reaches up to bite off his gloves and she pants. “Leave them on… please.”

He does. They are battle-gloves, made to protect his hands and enhance his grip. Smooth and supple within, but rough without. Textured. Hard. He reaches out and strokes her clit tentatively with his finger. She shivers and cries out sharply. Her thighs flex as if she’s trying to clap them together, but she can’t move. He pushes a finger deep inside her, wiggling it methodically as she keens and struggles.

It’s odd, touching her so intimately, when he can’t really feel here. Can’t feel the heat or slickness of her. He would worry that he’s being too rough, but the way she’s moaning he can tell she only wants -

“More!” She begs. “Use your mouth!”

He leans forward, as if to lick her, then deviates at the last moment. Planting a warm wet kiss on the inside of her thigh. Another just above her left knee. Two more near her ankle.

She gasps as his mouth skims under her breast, then away. “What are you --?”

“Tasting every freckle on your body.” He smirks, sucks at her collarbone.

 _“Now?!”_  She makes an entirely quivery, needy sound of dismay. “This… is a _horrible_ _time_ for that!”

He grins, lips against her earlobe, and slips two fingers inside her, to made up for teasing. The gloves make them _thicker_ than usual. She shudders, pulling against the bonds, and nearly sobs. The restraints make her more vocal, he realizes, with delight.

He fucks her for a long time, using only his hands. He thinks she comes once, maybe twice, but she’s being so consistently noisy, and he can’t _feel_ her physical response, so it’s a little difficult to tell. But when she’s shaking, and swearing and looks flushed enough that’s she’d redder than he is, he pulls his fingers out, and _sucks_ on them, tasting her.

She moans.

He moves his attention to her breasts, pinching both nipples, and rolling them between his fingers, pulling until she cries out at the stretch. He traces the pebbled areolas with a gentle reverence offering kisses to the slopes of her breasts, before he returns to the domination of her nipples. He repeats the cycle, again, and again. Until the sounds she makes are one continuous cry, equal parts frustration, desperation and arousal.

 _“Please,_ Cullen! I can’t… I need.”

 _“Maker…”_ He groans, breath hitching. “They’re so _red.”_ He observes, giving them one final pinch.

It is only then that he puts his mouth to the open seam of her cunt. She nearly shrieks. He goes slow, teasing. Flicks his tongue against the wet heat of her, tastes the bright salty burst of her slick. Licks long stripes up the length of her sex, carefully avoiding her clit. She swears and struggles as he pries her apart with his fingers so he can fuck her with his tongue.

He takes off one of his gloves so he can touch himself. Cups a hand around his balls, and rubs the underside of his shaft in a long caress. There’s already a small puddle pre-come on the floor, and he feels more drip out of him.

His teeth fasten delicately over the nub of her clit, and it worries it gently. She cries out, a continuous wave of sound that rises and falls, as she comes, flooding his mouth with her slick. He growls his approval and for a moment he loses himself entirely to the scent and flavor of her. His mouth drops lower, planting open mouth kisses across her sex. Lower and lower until...

He notices the texture change first, and realizes his mouth is against her arsehole, and that all noises from her have abruptly stopped. She quivers beneath his lips, clenching. He groans and pushes himself closer, swirling his tongue against her pucker.

She makes a high-shocked sound, and he can feel her thighs shake. He wonders briefly if she’s trying to dislodge him, but then… she isn’t telling him to stop.

The realization makes him burn, and he rises up, takes his erection in hand and rubs it through the slickness of her folds, until his cock is nearly as wet as her cunt. Then he presses the flared head against her arsehole, and pauses. “Has anyone ever fucked you here?” He asks.

“N-no!” She thrashes, breath stuttering. “No one.”

“I could do it.” He growls, voice strained. And presses forward, testing the resistance. “Fuck your asshole. Make you take it.”

 _“Please.”_ She moans. And for a moment he’s not sure if she means _please, yes_ or _please, no._

For another moment he’s not sure if he cares.

He realizes, belatedly, that seeing her helpless and bound has unleashed a dark edge to his passion.

To hers as well.

 _“Do it.”_ Her thigh shake as she tries to writhe, but can’t. “Just do it.”

He presses in, just a bit, feels the sudden shift as her ass opens, just a little. But then -- it uses every last ounce of self-control he has -- he pulls back, with a husky “Soon…” and slides himself up into her cunt. The sound of her cry shudders through to his soul.

He sinks in as far as he can go, then has to pause and wipe at the sweat running at his temples -- he _is_ fully cloaked and armored after all -- before he starts to fuck her. It takes a bit to find his rhythm… it _is_ an awkward angle after all, and strains his legs a bit.

He takes her hard. Strokes the inside of her spread thighs as he thrusts. Mixes the high, sharp sensations with the tender ones. Drawing her seamlessly between one form of pleasure, to another. The cries she makes degrade into grunts and gasps and he feels himself galloping towards orgasm. But the dark, undone edge to him hasn’t left yet, and when he feels himself start to peak he pulls out, rises above her, and presses his cock to her lips.

“Open.” He gasps, “Open your mouth.”

She is loud even in this, gobbling and slurping, making the most delicious, obscene noises. He grips her throat, feeling it struggle as she gags. He backs off for a heartbeat, letting her breathe, then pinches her nostrils shut and thrusts. Chases her swallow, and slides as deep as she’s ever taken him.

He pulls back when she gags in earnest. But the fluttering clench of her throat… “Stick out your tongue.” He commands. “Now. _Maker_ , I… I’m-”

He rubs the tip of himself against her tongue as he comes. Pulses of his seed catch in her open mouth, but one strikes her cheek, another her chin. She makes a sound like a wounded animal, or perhaps it came from him. But she keeps her mouth obediently open, tongue extended, until he is empty.

 _“Yes…”_ He hisses, pushing himself back inside her mouth. “Yes. Suck out _every last drop.”_ He keeps himself in her mouth for a bit, half-hard and trembly. Wipes a tear from her eye with his thumb. Pulls back when the overstimulation becomes too much.

By the time he has her unbound and carriers her -- limp and come-covered -- to the bed, the dark passion he felt has receded and the embarrassment is starting to creep in. He takes in the splashes of his spend, her nipples, red and tender looking, her swollen sex… and flushes, rubs the back of his neck and feels half a monster. She’s marked the places where he’s bound her. Her wrists especially.

He strokes her ankle tenderly, struggling with what to do with the intensity of the experience. Worried that he’d offended, or hurt her, or…

She sighs happily, and rolls onto her stomach.  “You missed some freckles.” She notes.

“Oh.” He leans over, presses his lips beneath her right shoulder blade. He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, for some reason, and mummers. “My apologies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: chair bondage, vaginal sex, oral sex


	8. Your Tenderest Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's faith in Orlais is restored a tiiiiiny bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian letter in this chapter was written by Unicorn_farm -- so toss them some kudos
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6240283

She knows the instant Cullen realizes she’s not in the bed anymore.

He bolts upright and  _ flings _ himself off the bed, rolling up into a crouched position, all coiled tension, one hand where his sword should be, and a murderous expression on his face. Then he sees her, and his demeanor slides back to disoriented sleepiness so quickly that she wonders if he really  _ had _ been asleep the whole time.

“There you are.” He says sheepishly.

“I’m sorry.” She smiles, and holds out her hand to him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He walks to her with an enormous yawn, scratching his balls through the threadbare fabric of his breeches. They provide little in the way of either warmth or modesty, but the circles had not encouraged either Templars or Mages to sleep nude, and old habits are firmly rooted. “What time is it?” He blinks blearily at the candle on her desk.

“Late… or, possibly early.” She threads her fingers through his, but says. “Go back to bed.”

Cullen gives her a small shake of his head and brushes the back of his fingers against her neck. “Nightmares?”

She nods, tries to hide the small flash from the anchor, but it’s entirely impossible to ignore in the darkness. The flash of emerald casts eerie shadows throughout the room, and she shivers, rubbing at her wrist.

She’s perched on the desk, awkwardly clutching at herself. Some nights, she can still feel the heavy drag of fingers over her arm, the strength and raw hate of the creature, directed solely at her. The promise he’d made to her that he’d rend her limb from limb, and make it  _ last _ .

Cullen’s brows furrow for a moment before he seats himself on the chair, and pulls her into his lap, gathering her so she settles against him with a small sigh.

“Better?” He asks. 

“Much.”

They sit, pressed together for a long, long while. The warmth of his hand across her knees, and the sound of the slow, steady beating of his heart, does more to comfort her that she would have expected.

Cullen doesn't ask what frightened her -- they both have a bevy of terrors to choose from -- he just takes her marked hand, and kisses each of her fingertips, over and over, until she pulls away a little, tugging on his tunic.

“Take this off, please.”

He does, shifting her away from him so he doesn’t bump her with his elbows, and settles her back against his bare chest with a sound that’s a little huskier than a sigh.

She molds herself against him with a small sigh of her own, and feels the terror of the dream bleed away entirely. She has always felt perfectly safe in his arms.  

He feels warmer now. The soft golden hairs on his chest tickle against her cheek, and she brushes her hand against them, her touch skipping accidently over his remaining nipple. It pebbles, small and hard and she touches it again, deliberately.

Cullen’s rising cock pushes against her, a thickness nudging suddenly at her bottom. She wiggles against it experimentally, and his breath catches in a chuckle. A chuckle that melts into a low, rumbly growl when she returns her fingers to his nipple and plucks gently. She slants her mouth over his to catch the sounds he makes as she plays with him.

He shifts, seating her bottom more firmly against him, and she can feel the hard line of his arousal beneath her. She arches back, and rubs herself against it. Warmth blooms between her legs at the friction. 

Cullen moves his mouth slowly down her throat, breath catching in small moans as she rocks her hips against him. She turns her head to give him better access. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the jar of letters, and, well...

Fingers catch the rim and she drags the jar closer. 

She looks at him. Or, tries to. He still has his lips against her neck.

After a moment Cullen sighs. A long, breathy sound, sits up, and reaches into the multi-colored depths, plucking out a single envelope that’s  perfectly black, austere, and unscented. There’s a small skull drawn on it, surrounded by roses. It looks like a sort of crest.

“It’s probably about necrophilia.” He glares at the letter. “Get rid of it.”

She flaps her hand at him to hush him. “You’ve been letting Dorian tell you stories, haven’t you?” And opens the envelope. The stationary inside is less somber. It’s a pale pink. She waves it at him.  _ “See? _ Harmless.”

Cullen flares his nostrils at it, suspiciously. Searching for incriminating odors.

She reads it first, just in case.

  
_ My dear Commander, _

_ I watched you at the ball. I could see in your handsome visage, laid bare to the world, unmasked for all to see, the tension of your fear. I watched your shoulders grew stiff as lords and ladies took liberties upon your person, their grasping hands encroaching upon areas that should not be touched without invitation. They knew, as you knew, that to cause a fuss would lay the reputation of the Inquisition at risk amongst the courtiers on a night where so much was at stake. _

_ I longed to whisk you away from all those glittering monsters, with their sly digits caressing your body, their words playing at the Game even as their hands played with your tenderest parts. To hide you from their greedy eyes and greedier hands. _

_ I would encircle you with my body, lay your head upon my bosom, and wrap my arms around you in the tenderest of embraces. Sing to you sweet songs of comfort as I softly stroked your fair locks away from your beautiful, bare face. I would keep you safe from the trespass of their lusts. _

_ But alas. I, too, am but a player in this Game, and could do naught but watch as you suffered. _

_ With longing, I send to you my regrets. Vous êtes toujours dans mon cœur, mon chere. _

_ La Dame Mystérieuse _

  
A small sigh escapes her lips. “Harmless.” She assures, passing Cullen the letter.

He shoots her a supremely dubious look, but bends his head to read. As he does the crease between his brows, eases slowly. When he reaches the end he touches his finger against the signature briefly, lips pursed.

“See?” She says. “Orlesians aren’t all bad.”

“They are.” He snorts. “Probably a Ferelden in disguise. Well, _half-_ Ferelden. Still too many references to _‘sly digits caressing my body’._ Besides,” He adds. “That last bit’s in Orlesian. It probably says something horrible.” He glares at the letter, as though through sheer force of will he could force the stark lettering to translate itself.

She laughs. It’s a high, bright sound, and his expression lightens measurably.

“I love you.” She says, for the pleasure of watching the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile, and because it’s true.

The smile he gives her is lopsided, but real. He lets the letter drop to the floor, even as his hands drop to her hips, pressing them down. Cullen bends to press his lips to hers.

There’s something soft and languid in the kiss. A slow blooming flower unfolding as it deepens. Lips. Mouths. Tongues. He trembles as her hands skim over his bare shoulders.

“I love you, too.” He murmurs into her mouth. And glides his touch up from her hips, over her belly and ribs, gently cupping the fullness of her breasts, before reaching for the ribbon at the front of her night-rail.

He pulls it open, slowly, parts the thin material so that her breasts are mostly visible and presses a kiss against the space between them. “So beautiful…” He murmurs with a sigh. “I thought if I was going to lay my head against your bosom, I ought to do it properly.” He says with a cheeky grin.

“I’m not complaining.” Her voice hitches a little as he traces his finger along the underside of her breasts. 

Cullen’s lips follow the path his finger took, and he mouths the lush fullness of each breast with a trail of slow, deliberate kisses. She shivers when his tongue ghosts across her pebbled areola, but not up to the pointed tip. He reaches, hands full of her, squeezes and lifts both breasts, just for the pleasure of watching the weight of them drop when he lets go.  _ “Maker,” _ He moans appreciatively, “I want to you so badly...”

“Oh?” A warm happiness surges through her at his words. Warmth edged with  _ heat. _ She runs the tips of her fingers against his neck, pushes his chin gently back and kisses her way down to the pulse point at the base of his throat. “How do you want me?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Just like this…” He breathes as she keeps kissing, over his collarbone and down his chest. When she fastens her mouth on his nipple he gives a startled, cry, and grinds his hips against hers. 

Her fingers work at the laces of his trousers as she suckles him, biting gently into the meat of his pectoral as he gasps and swears. She pulls out Cullen’s cock, hard and dripping. But he pulls her hand away, pumps his cock a few times, runs his thumb over the salty tip and across her lips. She tastes his desire. Tang, and salt, and a muskier flavor than her own.

He rumbles his approval as she licks the pre-come from him, and he lets his thumb drift into her mouth, exploring.  _ “Maker,” _ Cullen swears, presses a sticky thumb against her tongue, and does it again. Milking drops of pre-come and feeding them to her one, by one. Fingers drifting from her mouth, to the head of his cock, and back again.

_ Two can play at this game.  _ She thinks.

She reaches down, and flicks her finger over the leaking head of his cock before sliding it between his lips. Cullen groans at the taste of his own seed. Eyes gone wide and dark with arousal.

She bends to kiss him, and their tongues slide together through the bright and bitter droplets. His cock twitches against her stomach, harder than before.

“Cullen…” She whispers. “I want to feel you inside me.”

His answer is a growl, low and somewhat dangerous sounding. 

His hands are against her thighs, rucking her night-rail up, baring her. She raises herself, positioning her hips over his erection and  _ sinks down. _ She can feel the flared head of his cock as it burrows into her, pushing deeper with every twitch of his hips.

He groans brokenly as he fills her, and his hands slide back to her breasts, squeezing them, lifting them to his lips. He pulls one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking hard, and she cries out at the sharpness of the sensation.

He teases them. First one, and then the other, before pulling on the back of her neck, bending her head low, encouraging her mouth down upon her own breast.

Cullen moans, then moans  _ louder _ when her tongue flicks out, against her own nipple. “Yes…” He hisses.  _ “Maker,  _ yes.” 

He leans forward, pressing his open mouth against hers, trapping her nipple between their kiss. She can feel the hard pebble of it between their lips and tongues, and the accompanying, sweet flicks of pleasure as he licks at her. She cups her hands around his, presses her breasts together and up, until she can suck her whole nipple into her mouth.

Cullen watches, eyes dark, mouth open on a moan as she suckles herself. His hips jerk beneath her, and she can  _ swear _ she feels his cock twitch inside.

He doesn’t stop touching her breasts, not for a moment. Hands, fingers, mouth, tongue, it’s a constant caress. Pinching. Sucking. The sensation pulls, gathers low in her belly, and, when he starts to use his  _ teeth,  _ she breaks.

Her orgasm hits her fast, and unexpectedly. He fastens his mouth over her nipple as soon as she cries out, pushes his fingers in her mouth. And for a moment everything is so high and bright and shivery that she doesn’t notice that he’s snaked his other hand over her buttocks and is teasing at her anus.

She’s still coming when he presses in with a single, slick finger. The ring of muscle constricts, clenching, but he works her with slow, determined strokes trying to get her to open. His other hand slips down the front of her, thumb seeking and rubbing at her clit.

She jerks, flesh over-sensitive in the wake of her climax and makes an insistent, choked sound.  Her hips snap back and forth, bouncing between the sensations at her front and rear. The bright, sharp spikes of pleasure against her clit, and the slow, insistent pressure of Cullen’s finger against her puckered hole, pushing, pushing, pushing…

She cries out sharply the moment the tip of his finger breeches her. Her whole body shivers.

Cullen makes a soft, strangled sound, and wiggles his finger gently. She cries out, silently. Curls her body forward, face pressed tight against his neck, hands gripping at his shoulders. The angle spreads her buttocks, and he slides in deeper.

“It’s almost all the way in.” He whispers, raggedly.

“Cullen…  _ please.” _

He pushes in, and she makes a deep, guttural noise as she take him up to his third knuckle.

“How…” His voice is strained. Broken. “How is it?” 

She presses back against his hand with a small, stilted cry, and  _ shudders. _

She feels…  _ invaded.  _ Caught. His fingers against her ass…  _ in _ her ass feel heavy, and strange, and  _ good. _ She can feel him against every bit of her. The ghost of his touch still lingers on her breasts, and she can taste his seed her mouth. Her cunt  _ throbs,  _ and when his thumb flicks hesitantly against her clit, the spikes of pleasure break apart any coherent thought she has.

So she  _ moans.  _

Cullen wiggles his finger again, and starts pumping, very, very gently. Little motions of his wrist that makes her gasp and writhe. He grips at her hip with his free hand, to still her, and presses his finger in and out until she begins to  _ whine. _

“Do you want more?” He growls against her ear. “Can I…?” He pulls his finger out and she keens, arching against him, seeking his touch.

_ “Please!” _ She manages. “Please, please, please…”

He slides his fingers against the wetness of her cunt, then presses back and up again, entering her this time with  _ two. _ The stretch is sharper. A near painful burn, and she cries out, clamps down on him, in surprise.

He stills, mutters something incoherent into her neck. She swears she’s never felt him so hard before. He sweeps his fingers in gentle, insistent circles to help her relax.

“Let me…” He pants. “I want…”

Cullen presses in, again, slowly, patiently and she arches against the pressure, gasping. Each time she clenches around him he pauses, worries at her clit until he feels her open, then presses in again. She’s vaguely aware of the sounds she’s making. Moans, half broken sobs, and an embarrassingly needy whine when he stills his fingers for too long.

When he finally, finally, slides both fingers in as far as they can go, she jerks against the fullness of the sensation, and hunches against him, lifting her arse slightly.

_ Please. _

_ Please, please. _

Cullen flicks his thumb against her clit, just once.

She isn’t prepared for the orgasm that slams into her. It’s a wall of pure sensation that races up her spine, severing control of her own body. Every nerve is raw and alight with pleasure. It’s -- she forgets to breathe, or, can’t. Her legs kick out, flailing feebly, and her finger dig into the muscles of his shoulders hard enough to bruise him, but she can’t possibly make herself stop.

“Maker, you’re  _ noisy.”  _ Cullen groans against her throat, presses a kiss against her skin. “Half of Skyhold must have heard you come.” His fingers twitch inside her and her hips buck, a little. “You’re so  _ tight _ like this.” He gasps, voice breaking.

He’s shaking. Trembling beneath her. A bead of sweat slides down his chest, and he presses his forehead to hers for a moment fighting for control. She’s a little unsure of what he’d actually do if she pushed him over the edge right now.

Instead she whispers his name. Over and over again. A prayer. A plea.

She keens as Cullen’s fingers begin to move in and out of her. He catches the sounds with his mouth, kisses her so deeply and thoroughly that she’s panting, barely able to catch her breath when he finally lets her go.

He is gentle at first. Slow. Almost tender.

_ She _ is undone.

The pressure is somehow too much and not enough.  She wails, long, and drawn out, bucks against him, fighting. But he holds her down, fingers pumping. 

She  _ bites him. _

Cullen shudders beneath her mouth, so she bites him again. The brief flare of pain seems to spur him, and he swears, his hips thrust upward suddenly, jarring her. She plants hard, sucking kisses up the column of his throat and under his chin. He rolls his hips against hers, manages to brace her up just a little, so there’s enough room between them to thrust. 

He fills her. Completely. Holds her to him as he takes her front and back. 

He’s less gentle with his hands, too. He plunges his fingers up her arse, swift, shallow strokes that become increasingly harder, until he’s nearly grinding up into her.

It aches, and it burns, and yet her pleasure builds fast. Faster than she can gather enough breath to beg him not to stop. And then...

“I want to see how many times I can make you come.” He growls into her ear.

She shrieks as another orgasm hits her, even stronger than the last, and she nearly bucks herself off him. He grapples with her briefly, swearing. Lifts her arse and plows into her, until the rhythmic sounds of flesh meeting flesh drown out the sounds of his ragged breathing.

He’s still pumping with his fingers, and she has the presence of mind to marvel that his forearm isn't cramping, before she comes again. Or maybe she doesn't. It’s hard to tell. But the peaks of pleasure are so high she’s nearly floating. 

She makes a desperate needy sound, begging him without words. To stop. To never stop. To make her come again.

His other hand leaves her clit, and fastens onto her breast. It’s not a gesture meant for her pleasure. She has the vague sense he’s hanging on, lost in his own malestrom.

“Oh Maker…  _ Maker!” _

His hand clamps down on her breast, his touch half-painful, and it pushes her to a place so high, her final orgasm rolls through, and through, and through her. A wave that crashes, but  _ doesn’t stop. _

She cries out.

Wails until she’s breathless, and dizzy.

Cullen’s hips snap up, one final time. He drives himself up and into her, and makes a sound that -- loud as it is -- can’t quite eclipse hers. She feels the sudden, shocking heat of his seed flooding her, and then an explosion of breath as his whole body shudders.

They rest for a moment. Sweaty. Trembly. Folded over each other, and still intertwined.

“I’ve never… never…” Cullen pants. He pulls his fingers gently free and she shivers, makes a small lost sound.

She wraps her arms around Cullen’s neck, threads his fingers through his hair. She can feel the sweat of his chest slick against her breasts. But she doesn’t care. His cock is still within her. A thick, heavy anchor grounding her. She feels tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, and bends her head to hide them from him.

“I-... Did you… How…” Cullen stammers. Still stunned from the intensity of their joining. He tries to unwind her from him so he can look at her, but she tightens her grip. His fingers rub against her arm, hesitantly. “Was that… was it too much?” He stills, bracing himself. “Did I hurt you?”

She squeezes him tighter, hard as she can. She can tell she’s terrifying him, but can’t seem to grasp words yet. They slip through her fingers. So she kisses him instead. A tender, brush of her lips and his mouth opens beneath hers, warm, and soft, and hopeful. And…

“You’re crying.” He says, when they pull apart. Something in his expression shatters.

_ “No.” _ She gasps. Finally, finally finding her voice. But she blinks and the tears roll down her cheeks.

Cullen draws in a deep, shaky breath through his nose, and holds it. A small, but deep line cuts between his brows and he brushes at a tear on the edge of her chin.

“Overwhelmed.” She breathes. “A little… a lot.” She presses her forehead to his as the words fail her again. She makes a noise that might have been a laugh, or a half broken sob. “And… I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard before.”

Cullen chuckles. The sound more bewildered than amused. “That’s the Ferelden half of the letter.”

They both laugh then, but not for long, they’re still too breathless.

All her emotions seem pressed up against the surface of her skin. She feels his cock slide out of her, and closes her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” She admits. “But it isn’t because I didn’t like… or  _ want… you,  _ touching me, like that. I  _ do.  _ Want it.” She shakes her head, fumbling with the words. “The things you make me feel…  _ terrify _ me sometimes.”

He’s quiet for a long while, as if struggling with the enormity of his own emotions. So he very carefully, pulls her close again, wraps his arms around her hips and back, and bends his head so it rests against her breasts.

“Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?” She asks with a small, amused sound.

“Yes, but only one of us has bosoms.” He nuzzles them gently in demonstration, then falls silent. 

She traces her touch along a bite mark on his shoulder. The sloping muscle is spotted with dark red bruises and _actual_ bites. The one she touches is deep enough that she can see the individual tooth marks on his fair skin. She sighs, a little regretfully. 

He closes his hand over hers, before she can apologize.

“I love you.” She says instead.

“And, I love you.” He smiles, lopsidedly. She can feel it against her skin. “That’s  _ more _ than I ever thought was possible… from life.” He means to say it lightly, but his voice breaks on the end. 

She bends her head over his.

And if the tears still fall… at least she knows why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: vaginal sex, anal fingering


	9. Twice as Delightful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor penmanship & a brief kink negotiation

She is sleeping.

Beautiful and boneless. Limbs asprawl. Hair a wild tangle around her head. Her nightrail is still open. One breast spills loose, full and heavy. Despite her partial nudity, she’s rather innocent looking in her utter abandon. And she rouses something in him that is fiercely protective.

Which is why _he_ isn’t sleeping. Just looming over her like some absurd midnight guardian. As if he could keep the bad dreams away by sheer force of will alone.

Still, she sleeps soundly as the night creeps towards day. And it isn’t until the first fingers of light spill over the Frostbacks that she rouses, eyes fluttering open, fingers curling against his where they stroke absently at her temple.

He finds her lips almost the instant her eyes open, pressing the warmth of his mouth against hers so she wakens to the touch, and taste of him.

Trevelyan smiles, lazily. “Mmmmm… I had a naughty dream…” Still halfway asleep, her eyes flutter closed again. “We were… and you put your fingers…” She makes the sound that doubles for laughter in the mornings. More like a breathless rumble than a laugh.

“Er...” He flushes scarlet.

Her eyes open, slowly at first, then suddenly all at once. Her hand drifts up, fingers hovering over the outline of a tender bite-mark on his shoulder. _“Oh.”_  Her expression shifts, and the bridge of her nose grows pink.

She sits up, just a bit, but the motion makes her nightrail slip down. She’s sporting her own evidence of the night’s exploits. Small dark red marks trail up the side of her neck, and finger-shaped bruises are visible across the slope of her right breast.

He sucks in a breath and reaches out to touch one. Deliberate and gentle. “I’m sorry.” He says softly. “I am… I was too…” He glances at her, and then quickly away. “You’re not…” He closes his eyes, and condemns his soul to the Maker’s care. “You’re not _sore,_ are you?”

“They’re just bruises, Cull -- _oh!”_ Her gaze drops. She looks mortified, and he’s certain she isn’t blushing half as hard as he is.

_Void take you, Rutherford._

He rubs his face discreetly with his hands, rather wishing a rift would open up beneath the bed and swallow him whole. But against his better judgement, he presses on. Wanting… Needing...

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t… but I…” He can feel himself fidgeting, but can’t seem to stop. “I-I need to know that you… _like_ everything that I do to you. Or…” He clears his throat, ears pinking. “If… _when..._ Maker’s Breath, if I’m ever too rough--”

She lets her breath out slowly, but audibly. He worries the conversation is both too intimate, and  too serious for this early in the morning, but she looks at him, surprisingly clear-eyed. “If I don’t, or if you are, I’ll tell you to stop.”

His brow furrows. “I made you cry last night.” He reminds her, voice hollow. “I was afraid I hurt you.”

“Cullen, I _like it_ when you’re --”

 _“Really_ hurt you.” He insists. “And I would never want to… but sometimes I…” He shakes his head, swearing, and runs his hands through his tangled curls.

Maker, _how_ can he explain something he barely understands himself.

That he wants to hold her. Protect her. Build a wall around the pair of them, and keep her safe forever. Wants to cherish her. To touch her with tenderness, and reverence. Wants to lay at her feet and worship her.

And yet... he _also_ wants to bend her to his will. Wants to feel her shudder, and, and shake, and submit. Wants to fill her, flood her, touch every place inside of her. Wants her to beg, and scream, and, _Maker_ how he wants to give her more than she thinks she can take. Wants to _make her_ take it.

His cock stiffens, and he closes his eyes. If he looks at her now…

She’s stroking his thigh, lightly. A touch meant to soothe, not to titillate, but he rears up, and rolls her beneath him, pinning her arms above her head as he goes. She sucks in a surprised breath, eyes wide and dark. Her hips tilt up, just a little, and he grinds himself down against her, so she can feel the full length of his erection.

Her nightrail is still half open, and he means to bend his head and press a hard, sucking kiss against the bare and bruised slope of her breast, but _she_ kisses him first. A small brush of her lips against the underside of his jaw. Sweet, and shattering. She might have stabbed him. It hurts the same, and is just as hard to breathe.

“The things I want to do to you...” He gasps, head hanging so low, his forehead nearly rests on her chin. Her wrists feel fragile in his grip. “What if I…?”

When he looks up, there’s something half-tender and half-amused in her expression. “I know a lot of defensive spells, Cullen.”

He makes a soft sound that might be a chuckle. “Well, there _has_ to be some sort of middle-ground between me… _forcing_ you into something you don’t want, and you lighting my balls on fire.”

She grins, imagining. And kisses him again, lips buffeting his. “This is all new to me too.” She admits. “But, if I went for your balls, I’d probably use stone-fist. My Trainer has been teaching me.”

“That’s… not entirely reassuring.” He glances out the window, to where the sun is steadily rising, and rolls off her with a sigh. _“Damn._ It’s getting late. I have to go.” He climbs from the bed and pulls on a clean tunic. “We’re not done talking about this.”

She rolls over onto her stomach, and grins up at him from the pillows before closing her eyes, and drifting off back to sleep.

\---

It nags him all day.

Like a stone in his shoe that he can’t shake loose.

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever his thoughts turn to her, which is often.

He thinks about last night, the way he pushed himself inside her, reckless with want, and chasing his own pleasure. He remembers the feel of her shuddering and struggling in his arms. The tear stains on her cheeks as she grappled with words, afterwords. The revulsion and self-loathing that had risen up inside him before he’d understood that she was simply overwhelmed, and not _unwilling._

He isn’t sure of a solution, really. Besides resolving to never lay hands on her again. And he’s already proven himself a spectacular failure in that regard.

Instead he calls for an orderly to fetch him some tea, pinches wearily at the space between his brows, hoping to stave of the headache that’s building, and returns to the stack of requisitions he must approve -- or deny -- before noon. His thoughts turning to her, over and over again.

He misses lunch on account of Scout Harding, who in the manner of a few moments of casual conversation manages to tease him about the trebuchets being mis-calibrated, and well… he can’t _not_ recalibrate them immediately after that. Younger wood -- he explains -- tends to shrink and expand as it settles, and these trebuchets are freshly made, built to replace the ones lost at Haven. Idealy, they would be recalibrated daily to maintain a --

“Are you… laughing?” He asks, squinting at the freckled Dwarf, and biting back further explanation on how important such siege-engines are for modern-age warfare, and how if he _hadn’t_ taken such keen interest in the trebuchets back at Haven, things might have -- “Nevermind.”

He sighs, retreats back to his office, and manages -- for a time -- to think of neither the trebuchets, nor Trevelyan. Not until, some hours after noon, the latter knocks hastily and enters his office, balancing a small tray laden with something that smells wonderful. He looks up, startled, hastily shoving aside the note he’d been drafting to Master Dennet.

“What’s this?”

“You didn’t eat.” She offers with a shy smile, and a small shrug. There’s soup on the tray, and a small pocket of bread stuffed with spicy mustard, and ham. Two mugs of tea -- one already milky with cream and sugar. “I thought you might be hungry by now.” She says, passing him the unadulterated cup.

“I… Thank you.” The corners of his lips turn up, and a sort of embarrassed warmth suffuses his chest. He doesn’t deserve this women at all, really.

There’s some awkward reshuffling of some of the stacks of missives on his desk, as he tries to make space for the tray, one handed. A few folded entries slip free of the main pile, a half-finished letter to Mother Giselle about a new group of Chantry refugees, an official -- and ironic -- recalibration schedule for the trebuchets, and a small, heavily scented, square envelope.

He flushes as the envelope drops free, spinning to the edge of the desk. He can feel himself begin to thicken almost at once, body priming at the mere sight of one of the letters. He coughs hastily to cover the reaction, as she snatches at the letter to keep it from falling.

He tries not to watch as she fingers the scalloped edge of the envelope, unsure if he wishes she’d open it, or set it back down.

“Eat.” She says instead, with a small smile, reaching for her own cup of tea. “Before it gets cold.”

Of course, he’s too distracted to taste much of the meal, eating rapidly, watching beneath downturned lashes as she passes the letter between one hand and the other, casually, never setting it down. The envelope is a rather horrid shade of tangerine, nearly the exact same color as the small blob of sealing wax, stamped -- he notices -- with an engraving of a single orange.

A bergamot orange.

He remembers Lord Bergamot. Short. Stout. Ceaselessly wealthy. The man had been seated a few chairs away during dinner, making authoritative  -- and inaccurate -- comments about Ferelden, lewd -- but far more accurate -- observations on the pleasing shape of the serving maid, and dribbling crumbs and wine down the front of his heavily embroidered waistcoat.

He tries to ignore the letter, but the bright flash of tangerine between her fingertips keeps drawing his attention, keeping him at the edge of arousal. His office smells of the letter’s perfume. Bright and citrus-sour. He’s hard enough that the tender head of his cock rubs against the inside of his trousers, and he shifts in his chair, annoyed.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

“Yes. Thank you.” He sets his teacup down harder that he means to, nearly chipping the china, and winces. “For everything.”

She’s stroking the scalloped edge of the envelope with her thumb, over and over. A cadence very much like when she strokes his --

“Are you going to open that, or not?” He finally growls.

A slow smile unfurls across Trevelyan’s lips as she passes him the letter, fingers lingering against his own.

He sighs, and refrains from rolling his eyes -- _he really has no self control_ \-- and thumbs open the envelope.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Bergamot has horrid penmanship.

The salutation itself is clear. A slanted _Rutherford,_ at the top of the page, misaligned and twice as large as it ought. The rest of the malformed lettering scrawls across the page, slanting more deeply with every line. There’s little visible punctuation, and the words themselves seem unnecessarily cramped, and filled with random loops and whorls -- as exuberant as they are unreadable.

It takes him a few tries, but eventually he’s able to decipher two stray words, and a single sentence, which he reads, out loud.

  


_Frottage._

_Chevaliers._

_Twice as delightful with a pierced cock._

 

He drops the letter on the table between them. “We are _not_ piercing my cock.” He says.

Trevelyan presses her lips together, but can’t keep from smiling.

 _“No.”_ He insists. “Absolutely not. No.”

She’s still grinning.

“No!” He glares at her. He can feel his color creep from pink, to red, to scarlet. “No. If you’re so inclined, _you_ go pierce your…whatever it is women pierce…” He rubs his hand over his eyes, suddenly imagining a flash of gold nestled between the folds of her sex. He’s entirely hard now. _“Maker’s Breath.”_ He swears, and starts mumbling bits of the Canticle of Andraste.

She’s laughing now. Of course.

He lifts his hand so he can better glare at her. “These letters are turning me into a pervert.” He announces, grumpily.

“One can hope.” She smiles, expression warm. She reaches out a finger to touch the single, decipherable, unfamiliar word on the page. _Frottage._ “What does this mean?”

He glares at the letter, but refrains from touching it. “I haven’t any idea. Is it an Orlesian word? Something like small cottage? Is he telling me he has a nice, lake-side home?”

“It’s probably a _large_ cottage, if it’s full of Chevalier’s with pierced cocks.”

 _“Maker.”_ He covers his eyes again, equal parts aroused and annoyed. Feeling somehow wrong-footed with the letter’s lack of direction, which is utterly absurd. It isn’t as though he needs instruction -- or prompting! -- to bend her over his desk, and --

A hasty knock at his door, and one of his senior scouts enters. “Commander, I have an -- _oh!_ Your pardon, Inquisitor.”

They are a perfectly respectable distance apart, not even touching, but Cullen flames scarlet, and scoops the letter off the table, stuffing it unceremoniously into his pocket. “Maker’s Breath, Jim. _What_ is it?”

“Uh…” Jim shifts from foot to foot anxiously. “I’ll… uh… I’ll just wait outside for you, Ser, shall I?” The scout turns, and is gone.

He scrubs his face in his hands, fingers still itching to touch her. He risks a glance at Trevelyan, who looks mostly amused, but there’s something in her gaze… a subtle shifting he recognizes. “You’re leaving.” He observes.

_Idiot. She came to bid you farewell, not fuss around with the letters._

“I… _yes.”_ Her eyes squint at him. “How did you know?”

“You always have the same expression when you tell me you’ll be leaving.” He clears his throat trying to push down the sudden flare of panic welling within him. “Where?”

“Val Royeaux. And, only for a few days.”

He makes a sound through his nose that is part-relief, part-disdain, and the corners of her mouth turn up. “I’ll miss you.” He offers, resisting the urge to tug her against him and press his mouth against that small smile, in hopes of watching it grow.

“You won’t.” She smiles, anyway. “You’ll bury yourself in paperwork and fall asleep at your desk. The Runners do talk, you know.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

She reaches up to touch his face, hand small, and soft, and warm. “Do remember to eat.”

\--

She is gone.

A day passes.

Then another. And another. And another.

He does a perfectly reasonable amount a paperwork. After all, ‘ _bury’_ is a completely non-specific measurement, and it is hardly his fault that there is so much. He sleeps in his own bed -- the once -- and manages to remember to eat. Mostly. He spars with Cassandra, and gets a bloody nose for his trouble, and spends much of his spare time in the gardens, playing chess with various Inquisition members, and staring -- he hopes not _quite_ as forlornly as he feels --  at Trevelyan’s little garden. The freshly harvested pots seem unsettlingly empty.

The letter from Lord Bergamot stays in his pocket. Mostly because he keeps forgetting to take it out. He finds himself fingering it idly throughout the day, so when he notices the scalloped edge against his thumb as he passes through Solas’ atrium on his way to his own office, it is not so strange that he deviates, and begins the climb up to the library.

After all, books are what you turn to when there is something that you don’t know.

\--

He just misses greeting Trevelyan when she returns from Val Royeaux.

The soldiers had been testing prototypes of a new inquisition shield Dagana had designed -- something narrower, and longer, but far lighter than what was currently being produced in the armory. _Testing,_ being a diplomatic way of saying that his men were running around, whooping like banshees, and trying gleefully to brain each other with blunted maces. There _had_ been an order to it initially -- and a promise of a bottle of brandy to the man who broke the first shield -- but this sort of thing is more about _force_ than finesse, and the exercise had degraded rapidly.

It would be inaccurate to say that he had not joined in with the spectacle. Though, he was more restrained, facing edged blades, instead of blunted. And what with the noise -- the clanging and ringing of metal on metal, the shouts and calls of the soldiers, and those watching -- he hadn’t heard Trevelyan’s party returning.

He doesn't notice. Not until he pulls himself into the shade of the stables to rest for a moment. His shoulders ache when he swipes his arm across his brow. Even unarmored, and despite the ever-present chill of the Frostbacks, he’s drenched in sweat. He splashes water on his face, and chuckles at his men, still making an exuberant spectacle of themselves. Then he notices, out of the corner of his eye, Trevelyan’s horse, being brushed down. Dorian & Vivienne’s are already nestled in their stalls.

“The Inquisitor?” He asks.

Dennett gestures with his head. “Just arrived. She thought your training of the men was very amusing.”

He chuckles, blushing, half wishing they’d been conducting a far more professional set of drills. “I bet she did.” He wipes his face on the hem of his tunic and heads at once for the Great Hall, not even bothering to disguise his eagerness at her return.

The hall is half-filled, as usual. A few of the visiting dignitaries take note of him, though, unarmored, he can’t be sure they even recognize him as the Commander. He doesn’t pause to knock, he can see the guards posted discreetly outside Trevelyan’s door, and knows she must be there.

He takes the inner stairs two at a time. At the second door, he knocks. Two short raps with the back of his knuckles.

“Enter.”

A smile splits his lips at the sound of her voice, distracted as it is.

She’s standing at her desk, hands braced against the wood, shuffling intently through the pile of missives, requisitions, and other such official correspondence that has built up in her absence. The windows of her balcony are open and bare. Someone -- likely Josephine, colluding with Madame de Fer -- has ordered curtains changed. _Again._ The light coming off the Frostbacks spills in, golden and unmuted. It sparkles against her armor, glitters at her wrists and throat, and down the row of clasps at the front of her leather overcoat.

“Maker, you’re beautiful.” He breathes, enchanted.

She turns. “Cullen!”  Her expression brightens when she sees him, and she’s in his arms in an instant.

“Er. You might not want to…” He plucks self-consciously at his sweat-soaked -- and still quite damp -- tunic. And though his arms go instinctively around her, he leans back, a little. “I stink.”

She bends her head to his chest, and inhales deliberately, chuckling at his squawk of protest. “A little.” She grins. “But I’ve missed you.”

He makes a sound that’s part dismay and part, pleased embarrassment. And pulls away enough to peel himself out of his tunic, which he balls up and chucks into a corner of the room. It’s colder now, and he feels suddenly clammy. The skin across his chest prickles with gooseflesh, nipple drawing taunt.

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he flushes, rubbing the back of his neck.

_Maker, he hadn't meant--_

He opens his mouth to excuse his presumption, but she closes the distance between them, drawing him closer to her as she rises up on her toes, and kisses him. He shivers at the unexpected scratch of her armor against his bare chest. Sharp, where the rest of her is soft and yielding. Her fingers explore him gently. Dragging down his torso, nails half-tickish as they follow the arch of his ribs, curving around the V of muscle below his stomach, and down the small trail of hair below his navel. His cock rises, expectantly.

“Mmmm?” She murmurs against his lips.

He can feel her fingers trace the shape of him as he hardens, then rise again, into the tangle of his laces, and--

He pulls back suddenly, breaking the kiss. “Outercourse.”

She blinks, startled. “What?”

He clears his throat, flushing down to his navel.

“Frottage. Verb. An act of outercourse. The practice of rubbing against, or applying one’s body to another, as a means of obtaining sexual gratification. A form of non-penetrative sex, first made popular by Orlesian Chevaliers during the 8:72 Blessed revolt of--”

“Wait.” Trevelyan interjects, expression, carefully blank. “You _memorized_ the definition of frottage?”

“I… well, yes. We didn’t know.” He reminds her stiffly. “And Skyhold has quite an expansive library, after all.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Where did you find --?”

“In the winter edition of last years Randy Dowager Quarterly.” He clears his throat. “Dorian… had _confiscated_ most of the copies, and… _Maker,_ I...” He takes a deep breath, scrubs at his face. He can feel himself blushing intensely. “I owe you a very, _very_ large apology.”

She doesn't look the least bit alarmed. “For what?”

“I… _Maker…_ I…” He shakes his head, trying to get a grip on himself. _“Bull.”_ He says at last, gesturing helplessly.

She blinks. “Bull?”

 _“The Iron Bull,”_ He elaborates. “he was… he came… he found me in the library.” A muscle in the back of his neck clenches, and he rubs at it to ease the sudden cramp. “He asked me what I was doing. A casual question, really, and I... I _panicked.”_

 _Like an idiot._ He refrains from adding.

Trevelyan smiles, teeth caught in her lower lip. She has a beautiful smile, he can’t help but notice, despite his aggravation.

He grumbles. “Maker’s Breath. I had not expected to be startled by a Ben Hassrath interrogator, whilst researching an obscure sexual act, in a dirty publication.”

She has a beautiful laugh, too.

She reaches for him, and he lets her, melts in her embrace for a moment, seeking absolution he doesn't deserve, but can’t keep himself from accepting.

 _“Mercy.”_ He murmurs into her hair. And then he tells her.

How Bull’s easy grin, and teasing questions turned suddenly sharp, and pointed. How he’d ended up -- somehow -- in Bull’s quarters with a over-sized mug of something unpronounceable, and strongly alcoholic. Admitting to… _all sorts_ of insecurities, and reservations, and fantasies. About the letters, their exploration into the sexually unknown, and their recently, _very public_ relationship. It all seemed to tumble out in a bewildering rush.

He’d half expected the Qunari to laugh, denounce him as a pervert, or, possibly even punch him -- Bull has a reputation for being _fiercely_ protective of those within his inner most circle. But he’d done none of those things.

Instead he’d set his own drink down, rubbed his hands together, and raised the dark brow over his eye-patch. Then Bull had told him things, _shown_ him things. Things that both eased his heart, and made it beat faster. Things he was still grappling with, things he _couldn’t,_ didn’t know how yet to share.

But one thing most of all.

 _“Mercy.”_ He says again, softly, distinctly. Hooks his fingers beneath her chin, and lifts gently up, so she’s forced to look at him. “It’s a safeword. What you’ll say -- what _we’ll_ say -- if things go too far, or if we… _you…_ get scared, or hurt, or want to slow down. No questions. No judgement. Everything stops.”

“But--”

 _“Mercy.”_ He insists, fingers tightening a little.

She nods.

“Say it.”

“Mercy.” She repeats. There’s a slight hesitancy before the word, but she doesn’t argue.

It will do. He has no intention of being rough with her. Not today. Not after...

He strokes her jaw gently with his thumb, feeling the tension, and knotted embarrassment that has filled him since their last encounter slowly unknit. “I am sorry. About Bull. It seems… an egregious breach of your privacy.”

“It’s all right. It is.” She drags her fingers against his cheek, tenderly. “There’re aren’t many people you can talk to about… all this.”

He kisses her then, slowly, gently, savoring the way her mouth opens beneath his without hesitation. He sucks gently on her lower lip, tongue lingering against hers. She tastes of Orlais. Sweet and slightly unfamiliar. Like brandy, and ginger, and chocolates.

She’s flushed when they come up for air. “Outercourse, you said.”

His mouth pulls back into a smile. “I did.”

He kisses her again, and again. Her fingers work their way between them, unraveling the lacings of his breeches. He steps free of the last of his clothing, before helping her with hers. She doesn’t just taste like Orlais. She smells like it, too. Spice and citrus caught in the folds of her robes. She isn’t wearing her usual armor, this set is special, more silk than leather. It hugs the shape of her, and the material glimmers like an oil slick where it catches the light.

His fingers are awkward -- in all honestly he’s already too roused to deal with the delicate fastenings, and after he nearly rips off one of the clasps, she shoos his hands away with a chuckle, and undresses herself. His hands, bereft of a task drop down to his cock, one palm cups the ache in his balls. The other strokes slowly. Up, and down, and up again. He’s hard enough that even this small amount of sensation has him leaking.

He makes a low rumble of approval when her robes slip from her shoulders. He can see the points of her nippes harden in the sudden chill, and leans up against the edge of her desk, watching.

When she’s down to her smalls, he drops to his knees. “Let me?” _This_ at least he’s capable of attending to. He plants a kiss on each of her hipbones, sliding his hands up along her thighs before working his fingers beneath the straps.

“I have a confession, too… of sorts.” She says softly.

He grins -- though she can’t see it -- charmed by the thought. “Do you?”

“Cullen…”

There’s a something odd in her voice, a hitching sense of embarrassment, that he doesn’t understand until he slides her smalls down her thighs. Trevelyan is…

_“Maker’s Breath.”_

“Is that a good Maker’s Breath?” She asks, a little uncertainly. “Or…”

He reaches out a trembling hand, but stops just short of touching her. His mind blanks, and he fumbles for the right word. _Any_ word, really. “Good.” He manages, voice a husky whisper.

She’s shaved. Entirely. The dark mat of hair at the crux of her is gone, the flesh there smooth and silky looking. He can see the seam of her with perfectly clarity, sealed tightly between her thighs. Her tender folds blush, and he leans forward, entirely without meaning to.

“Dorian took me to a place in Val Royeaux.” She explains, hesitantly. “It isn’t pierced.” Uncertainty creeps into her voice, a little. “I, uh… I don’t think I’ll keep it like this. But I thought… just for the novelty... ”

“Good.” He says again, having not quite remembered any other words. “Good…”

She wriggles the rest of the way out of her smalls, and stand before him, bare. Really, _really_ bare.

“Cullen?”

“Get on the bed.” He breathes.

His hand finds his cock again as she does so, and he pumps slowly, almost absently, watching her. He feels a little unsure, and oddly shy. His eyes roam the familiar lines of her body, but his eyes keep being pulled to the bald patch between her legs.

She must feel the same uncertainty, because after a moment, she she asks breathlessly, “What now?”

“First,” He says, still tugging on his cock. “I’m going to bury my face between your legs, for a bit.” He licks his lips. “And then I suppose we should get some oil for the rest of you.”

Her eyes go wide and round, and her legs fall neatly apart. She looks a little stunned.

He smirks, and takes position between her thighs, and drinks in the sight of her. The familiar shape of folds, bereft of their cover, seem shockingly exposed. Like some private, erotic secret he’s been allowed. His heart bumps in his chest, tender with the weight of her trust.

He leans forward, but pauses, when he’s a hairsbreadth away from her tender flesh. “Is this breaking the rules, at all?” He wonders.

 _“I don’t care.”_ She says, definitively. Her hips tip upward, as she tries to press herself against his mouth.

The sound of his chuckle is eclipsed by her breathless gasp, as he bends his head, and licks her. The scent and heat of her are the same, her hitching gasps, familiar. But everything else… She’s too soft. Too smooth. Too slick. It’s different enough to be disorienting. His tongue roams restlessly, never settling into a rhythm. He ends up tracing love letters across her folds. Pressing words of praise against her skin between open-mouthed kisses, and sucking bites. The rasp of his beard scuffs against her tenderest flesh.

He touches himself as he tastes her. And _she_ shivers through his attentions. Arching and swearing. Tangling her fingers in his hair. She moans, grinding herself against him as his finger swirls gently around her opening, not penetrating, but _close._

“Oh!” She gasps. Her thighs shiver where he touches them. “Cullen!”

He hadn’t felt himself speed up, but his hand is pumping faster, and faster. Fingers suddenly slick with pre-come. He groans her name, and can feel her strain against him in reply. Maker, he could finish them both, just like this.

Instead -- with great effort --  he stills his hand, lets his kisses drift up over her quivering belly. She makes a small sound of dismay, hips arching, and tries to press his head back down again. He grins, tongue tracing a path between her breasts and up her neck. He stills her pleading whimpers with his mouth. Covers the favors of Orlais with the taste of her own pleasure.

“Is the oil still under your bed?” He asks.

She nods, breathless beneath him.

He finds the vial unerringly, and pulls out the stopper. _Vanilla._

He remembers. The taste of it on her fingers. The way the scent lingers behind her ears. The sight of her, dripping, mouth wrapped around his --

Trevelyan chuckles. “Enjoying that?”

He opens his eyes -- he hadn’t realized they were closed -- and, with a cheeky grin, upends the bottle over her. She gasps, arching in surprise as the cool oil hits at the base of her sternum, sliding quickly down, to the deepest curves of her torso. “I am.” He say, eyes glinting.

Her legs are still open, hips wriggling slightly, and he presses them against the bed to still them. His hands slide up, and through the puddle of oil on her stomach, fingers trailing slickness and scent as they reach, cupping her breasts, thumbs rubbing against the tips until they rise, taunt beneath his caress. She moans a little, shifting beneath him. He drags his touch up over her chest, tracing the sharpness of her collarbones, the curve of her shoulder, fingers light against the column of her throat. He grazes the pulse point hammering at her throat.

There’s something deeply sensual, touching her like this. She’s open, and trusting, body laid bare to his eyes, and his hands. He goes slowly, savoring the slippery feel of her skin beneath his hands, the softness of her curves, and the way her breath catches in spots, on a laugh, or a moan.

She shudders when his fingers wander back down her body, spanning the broadness of her hips, pausing to rub oil into the tender skin below her belly button before dropping further to ghost his fingers against her bare mound. There’s no need for oil there -- she’s wet and open for him, still flushed from his earlier attention.

He drops more oil into his hands, and spreads it over her things, along the backs of her knees, and down the straight edges of her shins. Not even her feet are spared. He works the oil into her skin until she glistens. The scent of vanilla lays heavily over the bed, powerful and arousing.

He rubs his cock experimentally against her thigh.

“Are we… frotting?” She giggles. “Do we frot?”

“I suppose we are -- _do.”_ He huffs. “Maker, _hold still._ You’re slippery.”

She is. Like some sleek and watery sea creature, shiny and bare, and too beautiful for this world.

The slide is easier than he imagined. He rocks his hips, and his cocks skips up her side, until it catches in the crook of her arm. He tries to grip her to readjust the angle, but she slips from his hands, laughing.

He has no control, he realizes. Each time he touches her, he gets oil on himself, until he is nearly as slippery as she, and they bump and slide together it a way that might be more awkward, if it didn’t feel so good. He reaches between her legs, and his hand slips from her cunt down to her knees in a heartbeat.

“How am I supposed to --” He huffs in annoyance. “I’m not sure this is worth the mess.”

“Oh?” She twists beneath him, get a hand on his cock, and squeezes. Somehow _her_ grip doesn’t slide free, and he spends the new few moments breathlessly fucking her hand, edging rather close to orgasm. She doesn’t let go. He has to dig his thumb into her ribs, gently, and she rolls away laughing. “Unfair!”

“Oh?” He reaches for the cleft between her buttocks, but she twists away again, smiling.

It becomes a game of sorts, after that. A dance. A slide of bodies, slick, and shivery. Each trying to coax pleasure out of the other with teasing touches. Breathless moans, and gasps that twist away into laughter. Once when her legs fall open beneath him, he nearly slides up, and into her. Pulling back at the last second, only because he remembers to. But he drags the heaviness of his cock against her cunt, and the laughter falls back into something needy.

She undulates against him, and, overwrought, he presses his mouth to whatever parts of her he can. The back of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, her wrists, the flexing muscles of her thighs. His cock juts, trapped between them, no matter how he configures himself. And though his hands manage to work their way between her legs, to stroke against the smoothness of her folds, he knows he’s far closer to coming than she.

He sets his teeth on his bottom lip, and stills his hips, but she rubs herself relentlessly against him. He can feel his cock slide over her body, feel the press, and pressure of it. Caught, between his belly and her own.

The pleasure of the constant friction builds, and builds, rising past the point where he can fight it. He grips her, trying to still her long enough to pull himself back from the edge, but his hands slip on her hipbones and she wriggles out of his grasp. He swears, tries again. She slides her arms up over his shoulders, mouth skimming over his collarbone, teeth scraping lightly. Her hips circle restlessly beneath him, and he tangles his fingers in her hair, anchoring himself, as he ruts against her, hard.

The sound of a broken cry, and he realizes it’s his as he bucks against her, suddenly desperate. She shifts against him, just slightly, and it is all it takes. His back arches suddenly, overwhelmed. His hips stutter, and he comes against gloss of her skin. The slick heat of it, shocking.

She makes a pleased sound, and pulls him tighter against her.

He opens his mouth to apologize -- he’s never actually come _before_ her -- but he’s breathing to hard for words. So instead he traces his fingertips along her skin, touch feather-light, and tender, and a little regretful. She shudders in response, eyes dark and dilated.

She’s _close._

He makes an approving rumble in the back of his throat, and sets to work.

It is something. To touch her like this without the shadow of his own lust hanging over him. To touch her for _her_ pleasure alone. To see, with clearer eyes, the way she arches into his palms, or shifts her hips against the coarse hair on his thighs. To watch as she unravels beneath his caresses, and kisses. To swallow the soft sobs she makes as he drags her to the very edge.

To savor the joy fate -- or the Maker -- has granted him. This rare gift.

_Her._

Despite the slipperiness, he manages to wedge his leg between hers. She rubs herself against him, hands against his buttocks, locking him in place. His hands cup her breasts, thumbs tracing circles against her nipples. Slowly at first, then faster, and faster, until his touch matches the frantic pace of her grinding hips.

“Yes, my love. Come for me.”

He watches as she does. Toes curling as the sensation rockets through her. She stiffens, curling tightly against him, mouth caught on the sound of his name. Her brow furrows gently, and a startlingly vibrant blush colors her cheek as she peaks.

She has never been more lovely. He wonders if it is like this every time.

Then all at once, the breath rushes out of her, and she relaxes against him. Limp and limpid. The corners of her mouth curl up into a small smile. “Do you think it’s really _twice_ as delightful with a pierced cock?”

He chuckles, kisses the salt at her temples. “I promise if I ever get it pierced, we can try this again.”

She laughs, and kisses him back.

\--

It’s difficult to stay focused throughout the rest of the day. His hands -- and likely the rest of him -- smell strongly of vanilla. He finds himself rubbing his fingers under his nose frequently enough that, when he visits the smithy, Harritt squints suspiciously at him and offers the observation that his lip would be less cold if he decided to grow a mustache. He’s almost glad when the messenger comes bearing a summons for the war council.

Trevelyan’s return always herald’s a meeting of the advisors. His step is light, as he crosses the main hall. Unhurried. But his world shifts when he walks through the doors of the war room.

Hawke is there, unarmored, and unpainted, looking grimmer than he’s ever seen her, and _that_ is saying quite a lot. Josephine is in the corner, scribbling furiously, her quill a pale blur against her cheek. Leliana is already moving the markers -- nearly every marker available -- towards the center of the map, circling their forces around a central point.

_Adamant._

“You must be joking.” He hears himself say in a surprisingly level voice.

Leliana’s gaze is sharp and dark. “Hawke’s reports, corroborate my own. Adamant, is where we’ll find the Warden mages.”

“Adamant fortress is unbreachable.” He says stiffly, bracing himself against the war table with his knuckles.

“Historically.” Josephine offers, ever the optimist.

 _“Unbreachable.”_  He insists. He can feel something deep and unsettled in the pit of his stomach.

Hawke takes an audible breath. “You don’t have a choice, if you want to save her.” She doesn’t even look up as she says it. Just throws out the words the same way she flings arrows. Blindly. Yet they strike as deep as they always do.

_“I can’t --!”_

The protests die on his lips. Hawke isn’t wrong, after all.

He glances up. Not at Hawke, but at Trevelyan. She meets his gaze, unflinchingly. Silent, and ashen. There’s a marker in her hand -- _her_ marker. It’s larger than the others, shaped like a fist clutching a dagger, bearing the symbol of the Inquisition. The tips of the fingers are enameled; a brilliant, shimmery green that catches the light as Trevelyan leans forward, and plants her marker at the center of Adamant fortress.

_I can’t save her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you all for sticking with me! And apologies. It's been a while since I updated the main story, but I've outlined 10 more chapters, so I can assure you there's plenty left to write. This chapter was just difficult, that, coupled with real life stuff made writing complicated. 
> 
> Also, if you guys haven't read pt. 2 -- The Prequel, you should check it out. It features the start of this Trev & Cullen's relationship, and is every bit as spicy as the main story. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @kauriart -- I draw a bunch there. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter specific tags: (brief) Kink negotiation, oral sex, frottage


	10. Beg for My Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen works too hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian letter in this chapter was written by tumblr's @stregatadallostregatto. This is probably one of my favorite chapters yet, thanks to her. :)

**** At night, Skyhold forgets it is the center of the greatest conflict of the age. It falls into old habits. Stillness. Silence. Dark, forgotten corners. 

The great hall -- the beating heart of the fortress -- is empty of its usual crowd. No bustling scouts, or visiting nobles seeking an audience. No soldiers, plate clanging in perfect rhythm as they march across the courtyards. No music, and merriment seeping out of the Herald’s Rest. Even the Inquisition banners hang limply from the walls, bereft of even the liveliness of a breeze.

She takes the long way to Cullen’s office, down the main steps, and across the training yard, before crossing up to the battlements. There are guards there, as always, but fewer. Hunched figures, alone, or in pairs. Mostly Templars  accustomed to the night watch. They ignore her. Or at least, pretend to.

Cullen’s office is not locked, nor is he sleeping. She can see the flicker of light beneath the door before she pushes it open with a small sigh.

He’s at his desk, head in his hand. Spine deeply curved as he hunches over a series of calculations. The quill in his fist moves infinitesimally, as he writes. Neat markings, like the footprints of tiny birds cross the page before him. The piles of books, manuscripts, maps, and stacks of notes stacked around him reach nearly up to his shoulders. The wavering candlelight glints off of the armor stand behind his desk, where Cullen’s armor hangs, haphazardly.

In the center of the uncharacteristic storm of Cullen’s workspace, sits a miniature model of Adamant fortress.

Her heart clenches, a little seeing it.

“Cullen?”

His head snaps up, surprised at the intrusion. But instead of the easy, lopsided smile that is his usual greeting, his eyes -- ringed with circles -- darken. He looks distinctly unfriendly.

“I’m busy. Go away.”

She steps fully into the office, skirting around a crumple of discarded attack plans that have spilled off his desk and onto the floor. “Take a break?” She asks. “Please?”

“I --  _ no.” _

“You haven’t slept in three days!”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” He huffs, rubbing absently between his brows with his thumb. “Look I --  _ Thank you _ for your concern. Truly. But --”

“Cullen, you are going to kill yourself. Enough!”

He glares at her, somewhat fuzzily. There’s a smear of ink near his temple, and his eyes are absolutely bloodshot. He opens his mouth, seems to lose his train of thought, and snaps his jaw shut with an audible  _ click. _

She wonders if it might be easier to simply knock him over the head, and be done with it.

“This is important.” He says finally.

The line between his brows cuts so deep she wonders if it has been there since the last war council. She doesn’t even mean to do it, but she moves towards him, presses her thumb against that crease, smoothing it with slow, gentle circles.

“So is resting.” She whispers back. “You don’t have to do  _ everything _ yourself.”

Cullen snorts. “I shall remind  _ you _ of that next time you’ve got to fetch some demonically possessed goat, or stomp around in the mud looking for --”

She kisses him.

It seems to be the most expedient way to get him to shut up.

It is. Though he huffs through his nose a moment longer, before kissing her back. She presses closer, and his mouth opens beneath hers, sluggishly. She uses the distraction to get herself thoroughly wedged between himself and his desk, where they have a brief, one-handed struggle over the quill still gripped in his fist.

Unsurprisingly, Cullen pulls away first. “Alright, give me that back.” He gestures to the quill. “I’ll… look, I’ll finish up here, quick as I can. You’re right. It  _ is _ late. You should --”

_ “I  _ should?!” Her brows raise, incredulous.

_ “You, _ yes. Get some sleep.” He says, firmly. The crease between his brows pinches in again. “Lead by example.” He insists.

“You’re impossible.”

“Adamant.”

A small flare of amusement lights between them. The corners of his mouth relax ever so slightly. She leans over and kisses the wrinkle of his scar, briefly.

“Exhausted.” She offers, quietly.

“Disciplined.” He counters, rising to grab at the quill.

She promptly raises the quill over her head, and out of reach, simultaneously pushing him back in his chair. The sudden movement pulls at her robe, and something tumbles out of it and onto Cullen’s lap.

He’s silent for a moment, looking down. Then…

“It appears you dropped this.”

_ Oh. _

It’s an Orlesian letter. Small, and square, and silver-gilt. With a rose colored kiss-mark upon the back, where the author -- one assumes -- has pressed their lips.

She makes a small, awkward sound. She  _ had _ tucked the letter into the folds of her robe, hoping to present it to him on their walk back her quarters. Now, having dumped it unceremoniously on him, it looks more like --

“Is this a  _ bribe, _ madam?” He asks in formal, clipped tones. “Do you think you can simply  _ seduce _ me into neglecting my duty?”

He actually sounds a little offended.

She licks her lips, considering. “Possibly. Will it work?”

He glares at her, opens his mouth to speak, promptly shuts it, and glares harder.

She reaches up and tucks a stray curl behind his ears. The rasp of his stubble is harsher, longer than usual, and she strokes the edge of his jaw with her thumb. Cullen stays rigid for a moment, before leaning into her touch with a small sigh. His fingers curl around her hand, pressing it against his face.

She can feel the exhaustion and tension wrap around him. Feel the tremble and strain of it. He’s still and silent for so long, that she wonders if he’s simply drifted off to sleep after all.

But then...

_ “Unbreachable.” _ He says finally. A note of hopelessness creeping into his voice. “Adamant fortress. But we  _ have  _ to go there. Fling men at its walls.  _ You _ have to --” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “Maker, if anything happened to you, through a failure of mine… I couldn’t… I…” Cullen grips the chair with such strength that his knuckles stand out white beneath his skin.

She can feel wetness against the hand pressed to his face.

_ Oh, Cullen. _

He’s trembling as she draws him against her, and squeezes so hard she’s a little worried she might bruise his ribs. He doesn’t complain. Bosoms, it appears,  _ are _ quite useful for giving comfort. He stills after a bit, but doesn’t let go. Neither does she.

“I could kiss you again.” She offers.

He vibrates faintly. The sound if a half-muffled snort.

_ “Am  _ I interrupting any brilliant plans in the making?” She asks.

“No.” He sighs, voice a little thick. “It’s mostly  _ more  _ trebuchets… or  _ larger _ trebuchets, or… hmmmmm...” He glares thoughtfully at the model fortress.  _ “Magical _ trebuchets…”

She’s not quite able to refrain from laughing.

“Dagna would probably be willing to enchant a trebuchet.” He muses. Eyes bleary and only half focused.

“No enchanted trebuchets.” She says, pulling back. “At least not until tomorrow.”

Cullen makes a distracted, noncommittal sound. His thumbs stroke absent circles against her hip bones. She really ought to send him straight to bed, but…

“Let me.” She asks, taking the letter from him. “Please?”

“You  _ are _ trying to seduce me.” He accuses, grumpily.

She smiles. “Is it working?”

He sighs. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

She does kiss him again. Slow and sweet and he growls a bit beneath her lips, but his hands work open her robe, clumsily. His fingers brush against her ribs, and she lets out a breath of laughter before pulling away enough to open the envelope.

The paper inside is dotted with kisses. The salutation, hidden beneath a smear of bright pink.

She reads.

 

_ “My Lion of Skyhold, _

_ I'm blushing while my hand's writing these words on a piece of paper. _

_ Since our meeting at the Winter Palace, I can't stop thinking about using this feather on you. I want to write all my burning passion for you on your reddened skin, following the seductive path of your muscles with this tip, feeling your body darting under my fingers until you'll beg for my tongue instead. _

_ Then, you'll have both, until I can taste you entirely. _

 

_ Regards, _

_ Comtesse Claudie Annette de Rouge” _

 

Her brows raise, and she looks at him expectantly.

Silence. Cullen frowns.

“Well?” She asks.

“I believe the last person who tried to tickle me was my sister Mia. I elbowed her in the face.” He admits.  _ “Not  _ on purpose, of course. I think I was ten.”

“You’re ticklish?” She grins. Imagining a young Cullen. Skinny and sunburnt. More leg than muscle.

“I  _ was.”  _ He leans hopefully into the word.

She taps her chin thoughtfully, considering, then moves around behind him, the sash from her robe in her hand. He’s tired enough that his reactions are slow, and she has the first loop around his wrists before he twitches, surprised.

“Is this alright?” She asks.

He nods.

She finishes tying his hands behind the back of the chair as best she can, and when she crosses back to the front, Cullen’s gaze is curious, and dark with arousal. He shifts a little, testing the bonds.

“I take no responsibility if I kick you.” He warns.

“Noted.”

His breath catches when she drops to her knees before him. It’s fortunate that he’s wearing one of his tunics that opens entirely down the front. She works the row of buttons open slowly, before slipping her hand beneath the fabric and stroking gently at his chest.

Cullen laughs, a little nervously. She can feel the muscles  of his stomach clench beneath her fingertips. She parts his tunic carefully, tucking the edges back so they stay open.

He’s paler than usual. A little wan. More ivory than gold. But the flush at his throat is a vivid pink. Nearly the same color as the kiss marks on the letter.

She starts at his collarbone, runs the fingers of both gently down the center of his chest, where the crinkle of hair is thickest. His skin spots with gooseflesh, single nipple drawing into a tight pucker. She doesn't know how much he feels across the half of his chest that is webbed with scars, but she doesn’t shy from touching him there. Just traces a slow, and careful arc across his ribs and down his stomach before settling at the laces of his breeches.

It's a little awkward once she gets them open. He has to buck his hips so she can work the fabric down his thighs. She doesn’t bother with his boots, just gets his breeches around his knees, and rocks back a little, so she can look at him.

His bulk fills the small space behind his desk, entirely. It makes him seem larger than usual. And the way he shifts slightly as she watches him -- half excitement, half nervous anxiety -- makes the muscles along his torso and thighs flex. The blush has spread. It's halfway down his belly now. It makes his scar look less mottled. Makes the better-healed portions stand out, in silvery patches. Below, Cullen’s erection sticks straight out, thick, and hard. The flared ridge of his cock, still hidden by a tender roll of foreskin.

She leans close enough that she can feel his body heat rising off him in shuddering waves, and whispers. “I’m not going to let you come anywhere, except in my mouth.”

Cullen makes a soft, strangled sound. The muscles of his thighs flex, making his cock bob.

It is only then that she reaches back for the quill. “And only if you ask, very,  _ very _ nicely.” She brushes the quill under his jawline first, gauging his reaction, before sliding it across the bare slopes of his shoulders.

Cullen flinches, slightly, and sucks in a deep breath. “That tickles.”  He’s already breathing a little hard, golden gaze leveled at her.

She makes a pleased sound, and the feather drops, teasing against his nipple for a moment before sliding across his ribs. She outlines every groove, every dip of quivering muscle across his chest and belly, as Cullen makes little, breathless noises. She can tell he’s trying to mask his reactions, but he’s failing, spectacularly. He’s most sensitive across his flank, she discovers. And when she runs the feather there he squeezes his eyes shut, and shudders, with an explosion of breath.

“Oh, I like this.” She mummers.

He’s flushing to his navel, and down the length of his cock. Even his balls seem to blush, and she can’t resist flicking the feather there. Right up the seam of his sac.

He makes a shocked sound, and his whole body tenses, jerking at his bonds. _ “Shit.”  _ His knees draw up, just a little, shifting, trying to pull away.

She keeps the feather against his balls, stroking lightly as his hips jerk reflexively. The weight of Cullen’s cock swings back and forth as he struggles. He isn’t laughing, but the desperate sounds he make have a similar cadence.

When she finally pulls the feather back the head of his cock is slick with precome. A drop beads the tip.

She licks it off.

Cullen groans, eyes open. Watching as she sucks the very tip of him into her mouth. His hips lift, trying to push himself in farther, but he has no leverage. She wraps her hand around the base of him, stroking, and sucks harder as he releases a little more precome.

_ “Ah! _ Maker’s breath…  _ please…” _

She keep him in her mouth as she reapplies the feather to his belly. Flicking it softly against his navel. Working small, teasing circles up along his side, until he starts cursing. Then she pushes herself down the length of him, sucking and bobbing, until his voice stutters, and his curses turn into strangled pleas.

Cullen’s close. Hard, and huge in her mouth. She listens to the way his cries begin to crest, the way his knees lift up, flexing… reaching...  Almost...

She pulls off him, entirely. Denying him her touch.

Delaying his release.

“Please… please just…” He makes a frustrated sound, back arching. “Please touch me. Only a little more…”

She rubs his balls, making soothing noises. Abandons the feather entirely in favor of using both her hands. One returns to his cock, carefully stroking.  The other, reaches lower, gently cupping his sac.

“Yes.” He moans. “Oh yes…”

She licks him. One quick swipe from base to tip, and his breathing quickens. Knees flexing in an effort not to thrust his hips.

The next time she tastes salt, she pulls back again.

The sound he makes this time, is pleading, and desperate. But Cullen doesn’t start to truly beg until she edges him for a third time. Stroking him to the brink of orgasm, before letting go.

“No!” He cries. “Don’t!  _ Please, please!” _

Her hand drifts in the air between them, uncertain. She reaches for him, drawn by the anguish in his voice. But…

_ “Don’t!”  _ He pleads. He’s breathing is hard, and ragged on the edges.

She freezes. Does he want… does he  _ not _ want? For the first time, she isn’t sure.

“Cullen?”

He grits his teeth, hips thrusting useless into the empty air.

“Cullen?” She reaches out to stroke his thigh, trying to focus his attention. He’s still writhing in the chair. “Do you remember the word. The safeword?”

“I don’t --” He shakes his head, shivering. “I don’t want to say it.”

“Do you remember?” She insists.

“Yes!” He pants.

“And?”

“Mercy.” Cullen trips over the word. “Please, don’t stop.  _ Please don’t stop.” _

She doesn’t. Starts stroking him again, slowly, gently and he relaxes, less desperate when she touches him. Focused on the sensations.

“Yes, yes.” He moans. “Please don’t stop, Maker,  _ please.” _ She touches the tip of her tongue to his cock, and he jerks. “I need to come,” Cullen insists. “I  _ need to.” _

She presses a kiss to the side of his cock, where the veins bulge out. “Not yet.”

He pleads. Swears. Sobs.

She drags him to the edge of orgasm, and twice more abandons him there.

She’s never seen Cullen so hard before. His cock drips constantly, jerking whenever she touches him, jerking harder in the spaces between the slow, insistent strokes as he begs her not to stop. He struggles beautifully in the chair, back arching, hips thrusting, and when he begins to peak for the sixth time, he jerks  _ hard _ against the drag of her tongue, body nearly jack-knifing.

A sharp ripping sound, and Cullen breaks free of his bonds.

He’s on her in an instant, snarling something. Drags her to her feet, away from the desk, and towards the wall. Pulls her, half-stumbling, and lifts her upright, hips already stuttering against her thighs. She manages to get her robe and nightrail out of the way,  just as he snaps his hips forward, entering her cunt with a strangled sound of triumph.

She tries to help, tries to roll her hips and match his cadence. But in truth he’s bucking into her, so hard, and fast that she can do little else, but hold onto him. So she clings to him. Pants in his ear that she wants it  _ harder, faster, deeper. _

“Oh,  _ fuck!”  _  Cullen swears, face buried against her neck.

He drives himself into her with all his strength, again, and again, and again. The frantic  _ slap-slap-slap _ of flesh on flesh as he uses her. The impact of it, rough, just this side of brutal. She throws up a small barrier between herself and the stone wall, cushioning his thrusts.

Cullen growls as he fucks her. Harsh. Unintelligible.

The ferocity rouses her. She shifts her hips, attempting to draw him deeper. But Cullen grips her hips, fingers bruising, and snarls something, trying to still her. The relentless pounding pushes her past pain, and into pure sensation. The rhythm of his hips becomes the beat of her heart, steady, and sure. And when she comes, Cullen takes her hips in both his hands, and doubles his efforts with a roar, sweat streaming from his brow.

He makes a low, animalistic sound as he comes. A groan from the very depths, that builds, and builds. A crescendo of pleasure that rises, but doesn’t stop. It goes on, and on, wavering until his face turns bright red, until the veins in his neck standout, until his lungs lack the air to continue.

He gasps, explosively.  _ “Fuck!  _ Oh,  _ fuck.”  _ His hips stutter erratically, but don’t still. “I’m still coming! I’m --”

She can feel him pour into her, and wonders if the edging delayed his spend. He grunts, grinding into her, sobs in relief. Two final, sharp thrusts, and his legs collapse out from under him all at once.

They both drop like rocks. But she gets a barrier under his arse before he can break either of them.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s gasping too hard. She gets a hand on his chest, heart hammering beneath her fingers.

“Maker,” He pants. “I never, I…  _ fuck!” _

She laughs, breathlessly. Strokes the sweat from his brow with the edge of her robe. “You broke my sash.”

“You broke  _ me.” _  He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His eyes are a dark gold. They drift in and out of focus.

She untangles their limbs. “Any chance you can make it back to my chambers?”

“No.” He says, definitely.

“Can you make it up the ladder?”

“Possibly.”  He rises carefully, shaky-limbed as a fawn. “But you ought to go up first in case I fall.”

Despite his reservations, he navigates the ladder perfectly, stumbling only a little at the very top. He flops down on the bed with a sigh, and closes his eyes. His breeches are only half up, flaccid cock still on display. But he reaches out to take her hand, manages, a small, lopsided smile, and falls promptly asleep.

Her heart squeezes, and it’s a long while, just sitting on the bed, watching him, before she kisses the back of his hand, and gently extricates her fingers from his. He stirs. Rolls a little towards her, and stills with a sigh.

She gets each of his boots off, and the stockings beneath. She wonders if she should tuck him back into his breeches, but the dark fabric is splashed with come, and it’s easier to pull them off in any case. She briefly considers going back to her own bed, or -- for a far shorter time -- sleeping on the floor. His bed  _ is _ quite narrow, and he’s taking most of the space, curled up on his side like a blonde, sweaty shrimp. Still, she’s brim-full of affection for him, and she finds she can’t leave. So she tucks herself behind him, planting a kiss between his bare shoulder blades, and curling her knees against his.

“I love you, Cullen.” She whispers, and sleeps.

\--

She’s still curled around him when she wakes in the morning. Though she can’t see his face she can tell he’s awake by the way his fingers are tangled with hers. Thumb gently stroking her knuckles. 

“Mmmmmm…” She sighs against his back.

“You stayed.” He mummers. “I didn’t think…”

“Oh? Yes.” A jaw-cracking yawn and she thumps her forehead against his spine in silent protest of the morning. “Why  _ is _ your bed so small?”

“It fits  _ me.” _ He reminds her, a little stiffly.

She chuckles, imagining his sour expression. “And it’s so  _ cold, _ and damp, and -- _ ” _

“If you’re going to malign my quarters, you’ll to have to leave.” He huffs good-naturedly, then rolls over on himself until they are facing, nose to nose, knees overlapping. He nuzzles her, briefly, before ducking down for a kiss. Soft and sweet and chaste.

She makes a pleased sound, and drops a hand down his backside, squeezing one of his bare buttocks, wickedly.

“And where are my pants?” He grumbles, reminded. “The morning reports will be coming in soon.” Cullen rolls off the bed without waiting for an answer, glowering down at the come-stained breeches at the foot of the bed. He picks his discarded tunic insteads, sniffing briefly.

“Hmmm.” He frowns, dubiously.

She watches his blonde head disappear back down the ladder, and by the time she slips on her shoes and follows him, he’s bent over, balls swinging heavily between bare thighs, rootling around the chest in the corner of his office. She grins, cunt clenching at the sight. She wonders what would happen if one of the messengers walked in now.

_ “Ah.” _ Cullen says flatly, still bent over. His voice sounds so peculiar that she drifts to his side. He has a pair of rough spun breeches in one hand, and a smallish wooden box in the other. “I… hmm.” He tucks the box under his arm, blushing furiously, and stuffs himself into his breeches. He’s a little hard, she notices.

He puts the box at the edge of the desk as he laces up his breeches. Glaring, and blushing, and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He picks up the box, sets it back down again, then, with an audible curse, flips the lid open.

It’s a butt plug. Dark and sleek, and nestled in plum velvet. She glances at Cullen. He looks a bit like he wants to die.

“Cullen…” She says after a long drawn out moment.

“I didn’t get it, for you --  _ or myself!” _ He hastens to add. “It was a gift… from a noble… there was a letter… ” He flushes, closes his eyes, and very clearly commends his soul to the Maker. “It’s for anal… anal…  _ The anus.” _

She grins. He is  _ sweating. _

“I know what it’s for.” She admits.

He looks truly scandalized.

“Cullen!” She bursts out laughing. “Dorian  _ is _ my best friend. He and Bull...”

His eyes widen at that, but he makes no comment.

She reaches out a hand, tentatively, to touch the plug. It’s smooth and cold, and frankly, has a lovely weight to it. It’s about half the length of her hand, and rather broad, considering. “It’s a bit large, isn’t it?” She muses.

“I  _ have _ seen bigger.” Cullen says, then immediately, claps his hand over his eyes with a small groan. His lips move silently. Over a prayer, or a curse.

She presses her fingers against her lips to hide her smile, but she needn’t bother. He refuses to meet her gaze. Instead, he fidgets around the desk, picking things up at random and putting them down, turning redder and redder.

After a while he cannot bear the silence. “What --  _ say something. _ Please.”

She rolls the plug in her hands for a moment, considering. Then, very, very carefully sits it on the the desk between them, so that stands, tip upturned.

“Alright,” She says, looking him straight in the eye. “Should we use it on you, or me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: Oral Sex, Tickling, Orgasm Delay / Denial, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex


	11. Yours for the Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Use This and Think of Me part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian Letter in this chapter is by the wonderful RosesHaveThorns. So toss them oodles of kudos.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6997771

******** He’s hallucinating.

His cock and his face are using the entirety of his body’s blood supply, and he’s hallucinating. He must be. She can’t have just said…

“Me?” He coaks.

But his voice goes a little flat on the end, and it sounds more like a statement like a question. Trevelyan’s eyes darken noticeably. It’s the same looks she gets when they read the letters. Something curious, and  _ hungry,  _ and she leans towards him.

_ He _ takes a step back. And when he glances nervously at the anal plug on the desk, and his mind all but blanks.

“I-- don’t. I mean… I want… I...” His chest feels tight, like he’s not getting enough air, or -- “Maker, if you -- I think… I…” He scrubs his hands through his hair, trying to stimulate his brain into functioning again.

This is not going at all as he planned.

Not that he  _ had  _ a plan.

Just a stupid, impulse that he was unable to tamp down as he ought to, and now --

_ “Cullen,” _ She says softly, sliding towards him.

Her voice is warm, and full of promises, and he’s enough of a coward that he can’t even  _ look _ at her. She cups his cheek. Soft, and sweet, and it feels like absolution. He looks at her then. Slides his hands up her bare arms, until they rest against her jaw, until his touch mimics her own.

_ “I’ll  _ enjoy it either way.” Trevelyan grins, eyes sparkling.

It isn’t possible for him to get any redder.

“Maker’s Breath.” He swipes his thumb over her lips, hard enough that he can feel her teeth beneath them. “What am I to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas.”

He growls her name, presses down with his thumb until her lips part, and he slides his thumb into her mouth. His cock, already hard and uncomfortably tight in his breeches,  _ throbs _ in response. “I--”

There’s a knock on the door. Sharp and formal. And a brief, “Morning report, Commander.”

_ “Shit.” _ He says, looking around. He isn’t even sure that the door is locked.

He glances at Trevelyan. She’s clad in just her nightrail, and for all the skin it covers -- bare arms not withstanding --  it’s  _ sheer  _ enough that he can see the shape of her breasts through the material. The rosebud peaks of her nipples press up against the fabric.

“You… your…” He points at her breasts, flushing. “Shit.” He says again, turning, snagging his surcoat from the armor stand behind them.  _ “Hide!” _

Trevelyan makes a soft sound that’s half giggle, but he’s so absorbed with pulling on his gloves, and trying to make himself at least  _ somewhat  _ presentable, that he doesn’t notice where she’s gone. Not until he seats himself back at his desk, nearly stepping on her in the process.

He tries to bend down to glare at her where she curls beneath his desk, but there isn’t enough room.  _ “What _ are you doing?!” He hisses at her. “I meant,  _ upstairs.” _

Another knock. “Commander? Ser?”

“Shit.” He whispers loudly, and then. “Enter!”

He brushes a hand hastily through his hair, ordering it as best he can. He’s unarmored, but no matter, he often doesn’t don his plate until after breakfast. The scout is halfway across the room, nose buried in a report --  _ praise be to the Maker  _ \--  when the remembers the butt plug sitting, not-so-innocently, on the edge of his desk. In plain fucking view.

He can feel the blood drain from his face, and his hand snakes out, lightening fast, and closes around the plug just as the scout looks up.

“-- insists the stone will be delayed until near Harvestmere, so the bridge can’t be mended ‘til then.”

“Uh…” He blinks, stupidly, heart hammering. He’s certain the scout can’t see what he’s holding. His palm is just large enough that it covers the plug end to end, but he still feels like he’s been caught with his cock in his hand. And he  _ has. _ Sort of.

_ Andraste preserve us all. _

He scrabbles for some semblance of coherency. “Bridge? What bridge?”

“The one in the Exalted plains. Near,  _ ah…” _ The scout, Geth, a heavy-set man with a ruddy beard, liberally threaded with grey, shuffles through his papers. “Near Pont Agur.”

The second Geth’s gaze drops, he sweeps the plug off the desktop, and lobs it unceremoniously at the dark space beneath his desk. There’s a muffled snort of laughter that the scout seems to miss. “Pont Agur.” He repeats, dumbly.

“Ah, yes, Commander.” Geth nods. “The Inquisitor had ordered it repaired. But they’ll be delays without the proper stone.”

“No.” He says, coming out of his daze, a bit. “Fix it with planks, for now. Sturdy enough to bear the weight of a horse, if not a wagon. We’re cut off at enough points in that region as it is. We can always mend it properly, later.”

Geth offers him a small-ish stack of papers, containing the mornings reports, daily troop movements, requisitions, and other bits of news that have bled in through the night. There’s a bit of shuffling as he makes space for the new paperwork, and hands over two folded letters, and a packet containing three maps to be given to Dagna. All this achieved around a sudden, awkward break in the already stilted conversation, when Trevelyan presses her hand high up on his thigh.

She doesn’t squeeze, or stroke him. Just keeps her hand still. Small, and warm, and ominous.

He finds her foot with his own, and presses down on it in a way he hopes is menacing, but probably isn’t, since he’s not wearing any boots.

“The Inquisitor…” Geth says, delicately.

_ Shit. _

His heart drops out of the bottom of his chest. “What of her?” He croaks.

“Sister Leliana’s scouts have returned, they think all those strange artifacts the Inquisitor’s been picking up… the ones with the skulls on ‘em. Well, they think maybe they found where they came from.”

“Oh?” He tries not to sound too relieved.

“Yes, Ser. Place out west, a ways. They’re calling it, The Forbidden Oasis. Very dramatic. Scout Harding has already been dispatched. Sister Leliana’s requested the Inquisitor set out before nightfall. Perhaps…” Geth nods towards the mess that is his desk. “Perhaps what she finds there will help sort out this nonsense. You know, demons and magic, and such.”

He ignores the way his stomach flips over, and forces a smile. “Yes. I’m sure it will. Thank you Geth.”

“Ser.” Geth nods and turns to go, but he scrambles to his feet, nearly meeting the scout at the door.

“One thing more.”

“Ser?”

“Have a tray sent up from the kitchens. A large one. And I’m not to be disturbed for one --  _ two _ hours.”

“Of course, Commander.”

He latches the door, deliberately in the scout’s wake. Presses back against the wood as though anticipating an untimely interruption. Across the office, Trevelyan extricates herself from beneath his desk. He opens his mouth to chastise her, but all that comes out is a weary, “ _ You… _ That…  _ Maker’s Breath.” _

“A private breakfast, Commander?” She grins. “Now who is trying to seduce whom?”

“Yes, well…” He snorts, and his expression smooths out.  “The, uh… bridge at Pont Agur is --”

“I heard.”

“And the Forbidden Oasis --”

“I heard that, too.”

He swallows round the sudden lump in his throat. “I suppose now is an opportune time to remind you, that you don’t have to go rushing off on every little Inquisition errand all on your own.”

“I’m not on my own, not really.” Trevelyan reminds him softly. “I go with the most elite of Thedas. Anything I do, I do with them.”

He manages a smile, for her sake. “Who?”

“Solas, of course. Dorian.”

“Too many mages.” He growls.

“And Cassandra. Happy?”

He gives a noncommittal grunt, and folds her into a hug, biting back the observation that he’ll only be happy once she’s back at safely Skyhold, whatever nightmare that awaits at Adamant behind them. Instead he buries his face in her neck, and breathes deeply of her scent, letting the warmth and nearness of her soothe him.

She sighs when his lips brush against her neck, and she tilts her head back to give him better access. “Do you have a letter?” She asks, voice so husky, that for a moment he entirely regrets having made the effort to put his breeches back on.

“Maker, I hope so.” He growls against her skin.

He has  _ two, _ as it turns out.

It takes a while to find them. They’re at the bottom of one of the drawers in his desk, having been hastily shoved there at some point in time. He selects one. It’s a sort of soft purple-grey, almost the same color as the Iron Bull’s skin. But when he flips the envelope over, the morning light catches a metallic scrawl in the corner. He squints suspiciously at the silver ink.

It’s a name, almost indiscernible, except in the right light. But it isn’t  _ his _ name.

_ Inquisitor Trevelyan. _

He clamps his jaw shut, against the small red-hot flare of jealousy that lances through him. It’s absurd, he knows. Utterly. But there it is, a hard little knot in his chest. “It’s for you.” He says, when he trusts himself enough to speak.

She blinks at him, bewildered, then studies the envelope, fingertips brushing against the silvery writing in a way that he feels, is far too intimate a touch for stationary. He snorts, rolls his eyes, and generally acts like a petulant child, as he watches her open the letter. Watches her so closely, that the moment her brows pull together in a little frown, he’s at her side, practically yanking the letter out of her hands.

_ “What?” _ He asks, frowning.

She gives a sad little sigh. “It’s written  _ in _ Orlesian.”

It is. The handwriting is neat enough -- and in black ink, this time -- but the words themselves are unintelligible.

She sighs again.

“Disappointed?” He asks, with a raised brow.

“A little.” She admits. “After all, I  _ was _ at Halamshiral too. In a dress that  _ you _ assured me made my tits look like divinity. I’m just glad  _ someone _ noticed.”

He makes a choked sound. “I did  _ not _ use the word tits. I was more respectful, I’m sure. And  _ I  _ certainly noticed.”

She chuckles, and gets her hands around his arse. “Do you want to try the other letter?”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “I suppose we ought to.” He says as begrudgingly as he can manage.

The second envelope is a pale sort of yellow green, with a tree embossed in the center. He runs his finger over the stamp automatically, even though he can’t possibly feel it through his gloves. There’s a thin emerald ribbons that winds around the envelope, and he cuts it loose with the point of his dagger, rather than fuss with the knot.

The letter inside is heavily scented, pine, and cedar, with deeper spicy notes of… cinnamon? Clove?

No… it’s...

He presses his nose against the paper, and sniffs, before jerking back and sneezing explosively.

“Maker’s Breaahhh-- _ CHOO!” _ He sneezes, again, dropping the letter as though it had suddenly burst into flames. “I think this has sandalwood in it.”

There’s a flurry of brief activity as he strips off his gloves and flings them into the corner. Trevelyan flaps the letter out the narrow window in an attempt to air out his office a bit. But between his fits of sneezing, and her fits of laughter, they mostly end up staggering around, snorting and bumping into each other.

At last he subsides, red-faced at his desk and gestures. “Hurry up and read the damn thing, so I can get it  _ out  _ of here.”

She unfolds the letter, still softly hiccuping with laughter.  _ “‘To the Ferelden Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition,’”  _ She reads.

_ “‘Your visage at the Masque was most intriguing. You stood, unmasked, and yet, also masked in your Ferelden stoicism, your Templar discipline --’” _

“Former --” He corrects automatically, “Former -- ah- _ CHOO!” _

Trevelyan goes a little pink in an attempt not to laugh.

“And…” She scans the letter, looking for her place.  _ “‘...and your general's bearing, but your discomfort was still visible to me, and, I am sure, to others. I could tell you were not enjoying the attentions of your many admirers, which is a pity, but then, I considered what you might do with your unexpressed anger at their pretensions and pawing.’” _

He snorts at this, but doesn’t sneeze.

_ “‘I am sure you must know that Fereldens are often called, somewhat unflatteringly, Dog Lords, because of their preoccupation with their canine companions. I understand having such a dog is a mark of nobility, as the beasts will not accept just anyone. Gaining the loyalty of such a lordly dog would be an honour, indeed. _

_ I am certain you must also be familiar with the phrase ‘Ferelden style’ when referring to an act of passion, yes?’” _

Trevelyan raises a single brow at him, waiting.

“I--” He clears his throat, suddenly hot. “Indeed.”

She continues.  _ “‘It is to this kind of coupling that my mind wandered when I considered you, so proudly and strongly Ferelden, simmering with anger, seeking a release for your righteous indignation. _

_ “I cannot stop imagining myself, an Orlesian lady of considerable rank and wealth, well-known at court, naked and at your mercy, kneeling at the edge of the bed while you drive into me from behind, Ferelden style, like the dog lord I know must live behind your impassive veneer and your disciplined posture. The very thought of this brings upon me an impassioned heat which is both terrible and wonderful, just as I am certain you are both terrible and wonderful when you are angry and aroused and seeking release and revenge for the slights and slings imposed upon you by the Orlesian court. _

_ Please do feel free to take your frustrations out on me, should you venture to Val Royeaux. I will happily be your willing Orlesian bitch, accepting on behalf of all of Orlais the hot, delicious, righteous anger of so virile a dog lord. _

_ Woof. _

_ Yours for the taking, _

_ Comtesse Elisse du Veltrois’” _

He opens his mouth to react to the letter, and sneezes explosively, jaw snapping shut.

“Is there an Orlesian style?” She wonders out loud.

He snorts. “It’s probably much the same, except you criticize each other's fashion choices.”

“Well you  _ do _ wear the same thing, every day, Cullen.”

He glares. “It’s a  _ uniform.” _

She moves towards him, but she shoos her away with a gruff, “Not another step.” And retreats back up the ladder with instructions to get rid of the damn thing, and for Andraste’s sake,  _ wash your hands _ before you come up.

She must, she take her time before clambering up the ladder. Long enough that he’s stripped down to his breeches, a task made much easier given his lack of plate and boots.

He’s seated on the bed, hands folded between his knees, watching as she traverses the ladder, and sniffs suspiciously in her direction when she reaches the top. He doesn’t sneeze again, Maker be praised. So he holds his hand out to her, an invitation.

Trevelyan steps towards him, hand outstretched, and it’s a surprise when she slips her hand into his and  _ passes him _ something.

“What--?”

It’s a collar, leather lined with velvet, bedecked with an absurd green satin bow, and attached to  a thin, almost delicate leash. It must have come with the letter.

He glares at the offering. “I am completely offended by the idea that anyone would put  _ that _ on a mabari. They are  _ war dogs.” _

“I don’t think it’s for a mabari, Cullen.” She says, eyes crinkling up with amusement.

“Then what --  _ oh!”  _ He blinks, mouth suddenly dry.

Oh.  _ Oh. _

It’s a thin, delicate thing, really. Ornamental, rather than functional. If he tugs on the leash, it will likely snap.

Still.

Green has always been her color.

He unlatches the collar, clumsily. Fingers too big for his own hands. But when he gets it unhooked, he hesitates. “May I?”

She moves to him, automatically turning and brushing her hair out of the way, settling on the floor between his knees. He rubs the back of her neck gently, a touch that weaves from her hairline, to the topmost knob of her spine. And then very, very carefully, places the collar around her throat.

She sighs. A heavy sound that sends a frisson of arousal through him.

He fumbles with the clasp as he fastens the collar. The fit is looser than perhaps it ought to be, he can easily slip two fingers between the collar and her neck, and does. He can feel her pulse, beating fast at the base of her throat, and shifts his fingers, dragging them across her collarbones, across the span of her shoulders.

Slipping the tips of his fingers beneath the straps of her nightrail, he pushes it down over her arms. Presses down, one palm firmly running along the curve of her spine, baring her with a slow, sweep of his hand. The thin fabric of her nightrail puddles around her, and she shivers, but -- he thinks -- not with cold. The leash hangs down over one of her shoulders. He picks it up, and wraps the end of it around his fist.

And then, it is the easiest thing in the world to untangle the laces of his breeches, turn her head, and gently guide her mouth down on his cock.

She slides down half his length, pulls back, then takes the rest of him. He makes a deep sound of satisfaction as she sucks him, head gracefully bowed, hair spilling across his lap.

It is a strangely quiet moment.

His eyes flutter closed.

He remembers their last encounter. The tickling. The teasing. The burning need for release that is still stamped on his brain. He tells himself this is why he grips her as he does. One hand against her chin, the other on the back of her head. Guiding her. Holding her, lest she stop.

He doesn’t  _ quite _ recall how last night ended.

_ Need. _ He remembers being nearly blinded by it. Remembers the sounds of his ragged pleas. Remembers the shape of their word as it sat, heavy in his mouth.  _ Mercy. _

She’d made him say it, once. Just to be sure.

But he hadn’t wanted mercy. He’d only wanted to come.

He still does.

He groans, fingers tightening in her hair, and his legs splay farther apart. “Maker… your mouth…” He pants, pulling his touch away from her, forcing his hands to rest on his knees. “Deeper… yes… press yourself down.  _ More.” _

She does, pushing herself down on him until he can feel the struggle of it. The sudden explosion of breath as she pulls back, and does it again. And again.

And again.

Her head bobs between his thighs. Fingertips tracing slow circles in the space behind his balls. His hips flex and jerk a little, thrusting up as she descends down upon him. Pushing himself deeper down her throat. He cups the back of her head so she can pull back -- but not entirely off him.

The sounds she makes are lewd, and garbled. They spur him, until he’s holding her head in place, thrusting harder, and faster, and deeper. He uses her mouth and she lets him. His cock brushes the back of her throat.

As his pleasure lifts, the sensation blurs, crossing back again into memory. He remembers how the desperate need had broken, falling away in the sudden feel of her beneath his hips, and the flash of pleasure, so bright it seared her touch into his very soul.

Perhaps this is why he does not hold back.

One stroke. Two. And he surprises them both when he cries out suddenly, balls drawing tight as he spills.

“Don't…” He pants, still coming. “Don't swallow. Not yet. I want to...”

He drags her to her knees when he's finished. She’s flushed, eyes are dark with desire. Pupils blown  _ wide. _ He traces the seam of her lips, presses his thumb gently inside.

“Maker’s Breath.” He gasps. He can feel the swirl of his spend within. “You… I…. That’s…” He groans, trying to remember if he’s ever encountered anything as arousing. His cock, not yet entirely deflated, begins to harden again.  _ “Fuck.” _ He says, succinctly.

She chuckles darkly, as much as she can. Tilts her head back slightly, and very deliberately,  _ swallows _ . Throat working around the mouthful of her prize.

He groans. Cock giving a decided twitch of renewed interest.

“Get… get on the bed.” He says hoarsely, stepping out of his breeches entirely. “Face down, arse up.”

She does. Slinking towards the bed on hands and knees. He still holds the end of the leash, and it folds over the curve of her back as she kneels at the edge of the bed, and presents herself to him. Her public hair has grown in a bit, a short dark smudge against the folds of her cunt. Her wants to run his thumb up along that tight seam and see if the hair is growing in soft or prickly as a beard.

He steps forward, cock in hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be  _ ‘simmering with anger’?” _ She asks.

“We’ll have to wait if that’s a prerequisite.” He grunts, half breathless from the view. “I don’t feel particularly angry at the moment.”

She gives him a look that’s thoughtful and full of devilry.  “Ferelden’s wine is inferior to that of Orlais.”

He raises his brows at her.

“Orlesian corsers make better mounts than Ferelden forders.”

He scoffs, the hand pumping at his shaft stills.  _ “That _ is not the least bit believable.”

“Orlesian women are  _ far _ more beautiful than --”

He swats her on the bottom, not precisely playfully. “You are imperiling your arse, Inquisitor.” He says with a growl, though his mouth is half-twisted into a smile. “Say what you will of our wine, and our horses, but leave our women  _ out of it.” _

She grins, and waggles her nethers at him. “Simmering yet, Commander?”

He growls in the back of his throat and gives her a matching handprint on her other ass cheek.

She makes a sound firmly wedged between a giggle and a gasp. And settles beneath his touch as he begins to stroke the small of her back. His hands span the width of her hips, curving down the sides of her thighs, and back up to her buttocks. He does run his thumb up the seam of her folds, the hair, stiff-soft and short, and slippery with her arousal.

He tugs on the leash, just a little. “Hold still.” He commands, lining himself up with her.

“Wait, Cullen.” She asks.

He stills, and then absolutely freezes when she drops the butt plug on the bed beside her.

“Maker’s Breath.” He mummers, darting a glance at her arsehole. “Are you… are you sure? You needn’t --”

“I want to, Cullen.” She assures him. “Do you?”

“Oh yes.” He nods, mouth dry. “Very much.”

He reaches out with long, tentative fingers. The plug feels very hard, and very cold. At its widest point it’s thicker than his two fingers.

“Do you have any oil?” She asks.

“I… yes, I believe…” He rummages around in the small cupboard beneath his bedside table. Finding, and extracting the small bottle of sword oil. It's a high-quality oil, unrefined and unscented. Crafted for utility, not luxury. And he has a momentary, passing qualm at its plainness.

He drips the oil over his fingers, before sliding them between her buttocks, and pressing a single digit up against her puckered hole. She makes a small, strained sound as he opens her. Pressing gently, but firmly, until he breaches her with the tip of his finger. It is different than before, the angle is easier, and he has better control. He can't see her face, but what he can see…

“Sweet Maker, have mercy.” He whispers as he watches his finger slide deeper, and deeper. They moan simultaneously as his finger slides all the way in.

His cock is  _ completely _ hard.

He pumps his finger, tentatively, almost teasingly. And by the time he pulls free and reaches for the plug, she is moaning, fists caught in the bedsheets.

He oils the plug carefully, thinking that whenever he polishes his sword, or plate he will always think of this. Of her. Open and trusting. An equal mix of desire and hesitation, that he finds utterly,  _ utterly _ arousing.

“Please, Cullen.” She begs softly, rolling her hips in anticipation.  _ “Please.” _

He growls her name as soothingly as he can, and moves the tip of the plug between the cleft of her buttocks. The plug is slippery, and her asshole is so tense, that it’s a bit of a struggle to press inside. There’s a sense of quivering resistance, then, a sudden slide, and the plug sinks in.

Trevelyan groans, and then nearly hisses, as he begins to press the plug in further. He can see the tight ring of muscle pull taunt. Clenching and unclenching around the unfamiliar hardness inside her.

He makes soothing noises. Wanting to press kisses along her flank, but too enraptured with the sight of the plug sinking further into her ass, to stop. Her cries lift as the plug reaches its thickest point, and she stretches around it, wider than she ever has. He presses the base of the plug, firmly, and all at once it passes, slipping deeper, pucker closing again against the plug’s slender shaft, until the base is nestled firmly against her. He can’t see her asshole, only the circle of cut-glass at the base, sparkling above the wetness of her cunt.

His mouth hangs open, too turned on for words.

She can’t keep her hips still. Or stay silent. She moans softly. Little hitching breaths as she undulates, restlessly.

He should give her a moment to adjust to the sensation, he knows.

But he can’t.

_ Won’t. _

He tugs on the leash, gently at first, and then harder as his restraint begins to fray, forcing her back into a deep arch as he enters her with his cock.

“Maker, you’re  _ tight!” _ He gasps, finally finding his voice.

She is. Tight enough that he has to grip himself by the base as he presses in, and in, until he’s fully seated inside her, balls resting against the curve of her ass. He begins to move slowly, little starts and stops, as she clenches her inner muscles in pulses. He’s not even sure if she’s doing it on purpose, or simply fighting the sensation of being so fully filled.

It takes such little effort to make her come. A roll of his hips, a hard thrust, and she is keening and pressing back against him. Cunt rippling as she climaxes. He growls that he should keep her like this, always. Parade her around the battlements with the plug nestled deep within her. She comes again, almost on the heels of her first orgasm, and he isn’t sure if it’s the imagery he’s conjured, or if she’s simply overwrought.

He increases his pace, and vigor, wanting to push her over the edge again. But pounding into her, listening to her broken wail, he realizes that  _ he _ is the one who won’t be able to last.

“Maker,” He swears. “holy sweet --  _ shit!” _

He slams into her. Hard. Deep as he can. And comes so hard he sees stars.

When his senses return, he’s folded over her, sweat running down his brow. She’s trembling beneath him, making breathless noises as though hovering at the edge of her own completion. She’s pinned, but her hips shift a little, and he isn’t sure if she’s trying to pull away, or seeking  _ more. _

He pulls out. A long, slow slide that ends in a wet  _ pop,  _ and a startled cry from her, as his cock slips free.

Her hips are flush against the bed, still flexing. And he watches her writhe and pant as he dresses -- again -- then his fingers find, and unlatch the collar around her neck. He picks up her discarded nightrail, and eyes her thoughtfully, but keeps the garmet for himself.

“Come downstairs, just as you are.” He says, after a moment.

He watches her from the bottom of the ladder, not only for the view --  _ Maker, _ he can see  _ everything _ as she climbs down -- but because of the unsteadiness of her legs, before retrieving the covered tray of food left at the door to his office.

The tray is heavily laden. Plain porridge, a cluster of boiled eggs, an entire heel of bread, soft cheese, and three apples. And tea, also plain.

He sets the tray at the edge of the desk. There is only one cup, and one set of utensils, so they must share. There is only one chair, so they share that as well. She perches on his knee, flushed, and silent, and completely naked, watching as he slices up one of the apples with the point of his dagger.

She doesn’t talk much, or remember to eat. He feeds her from his own hand, presses the teacup to her lips. She swallows. Gaze turned inward. Brows pinched together in a slight frown.

He strokes her gently. Brushes his hand against the curve of her knee, the sharpness of her elbow, and the underside of her breasts. Slow, tender caresses that make her flush even deeper, and set her hips wriggling.

_ “Cullen,”  _ She whines.

“Eat.” He instructs, and holds a piece of the cheese to her lips.

She eats.

It doesn’t take long for the inexorable movement of her hips to begin to rouse him. It’s slow, at first. A warm, lazy interest that licks up the inside of his thighs. He shifts in his chair, with a chuckle. It’s not surprising that he still wants her. Even having spilled himself inside her twice within the last hour, he wants her.

He pulls her closer, sliding her up against his thigh, and she cries out, quivering.

_ “Cullen,” _

One of his hands cup her breast. Thumb, idly toying with her nipple. “Maker’s Breath.” He whispers against her hair. “Look at you.”

She shivers and presses her face against his chest. “Cullen… I  _ can’t… _ I--”

He presses his mouth to hers to quiet her pleas, and she all but melts against him. Only the slow shifting of her hips betrays her discomfort. His hand drops down between her clenched legs, coaxing them apart so he can touch her there.

“Maker, you are so wet.” He growls.

_ “Please,” _ She whispers.

He kisses her again, grips her hips, and rocks her against him with slow, steady movements. His questing fingers stroke gently, ghosting through the slickness of her folds, teasing around the swell of her clit until she hangs at the edge of true pleasure.

She doesn’t beg again. Past the point of words, she just makes small, whimpering sounds. He could finish her with a single twitch of his fingers. Instead he rises, lifting her, and bends her over the arm of his chair. She spreads her legs for him, and he can see the base of the anal plug still nestled within her, and her cunt, swollen and slick.

He presses a kiss to the small of her back, before unlacing his breeches enough to pull out his cock and balls. He reaches between her buttocks, circles the edge of the plug with his thumb.

“I want you to feel this when you ride out tonight. Feel my touch inside you, when you go.” He growls.

She whimpers again, softly. A low, shivery sound that ends on a sharp exclamation as he slides himself deep within her, hilting his cock in a single stroke. His back arches and he makes a sound of deep satisfaction. And begins to fuck her.

She comes on the third stroke. A long, shuddering orgasm that he can feel wash over her in waves, tightening her cunt as she cries out beneath him. She sags when it passes, limp and trembling, and he strokes the swell of her hips apologetically. It can't be comfortable for her, legs thrown wide, body folded over the unpadded armrest. And he’s already come twice, and knows this will take a long, long time.

It does.

He rolls his hips as he fucks her to ease the discomfort of the position. Thrusts with slow and precise strokes, using the full length of his cock. All the way in, and all the way out, and all the way back in. Again, and again, and again. She shivers, legs trembling, and makes breathless moaning noises, writhing beautifully on the end of his cock.

And then, for no other reason than he loves the sounds that she makes, he reaches between her buttocks and begins to tug on the plug.

She struggles, back arching suddenly, makes a noise that’s half-protest and half-plea, hand scrabbling wildly behind her, trying to catch at his wrist. He pulls back on the plug, and she clenches tightly, automatically resisting the movement.

“Shhhh.” He murmurs soothingly. “Let me. Relax your ass.”

He can’t tell if she does or not, but he tugs more insistently and the plug slips out a little. Her hole stretches suddenly to accommodate the widest point of the plug, and she knees in earnest.

“Shhhh. Shhhh.” He knuckles the plug in place so it can’t slip, forcing her to stay open. “Relax. Just relax.” He says again, and starts to pump the plug gently, in and out. In and out.

She comes twice more as he plays with her. Cunt and arse clenching so tightly, he has to pause in his motions until her pleasure passes. Each orgasm leaves her a little more worn out, her legs tremble more, her cries, weaker, and her soft pleas are less intelligible. Still, he waits until she is entirely spent before pulling the plug from her entirely.

She makes only a soft sound of relief as he sets the plug aside.

He fucks her still, moving his hands to her hips to hold her steady as his thrusts increase in pace and ferocity. It is still a while before he comes. The pleasure builds in him like a storm, slow, and heavy, and strong. Building, and building, until it’s too much, until he can’t contain it, and he pours himself into her with a roar.

He rests flush against her back for a moment, breathing heavily. Kisses the tops of her shoulders, and the small sweat specked hairs on the back of her neck. She moans a little, and  _ Maker,  _ he wants to press his fingers back up her arse and take her again.

Selfish man.

Instead he pulls back, and out of her, and silently gathers her up in his arms. She kisses him, little, gentles presses of her lips against the underside of his chin, and holds on. He gets her back up the ladder, helping up ascend on unsteady legs, before picking her up and carrying her back to the bed.

She’s exhausted, and frankly, he is too. But he slides her back into the bed, peering critically at her. She’s a little red-faced, and droopy-eyed, but there are no tear tracks on her cheeks, and her brows are untroubled. She must devine some of his concern, because she wraps her arms around his neck, and pulls him down for a brief kiss.

“That was wonderful, Cullen.” She assures him, stroking his cheek. “Unexpected, but wonderful.”

“Well,” He chuckles, and tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ears. “I ought to have you sleep over more, if this is the result.” He kisses her temple, and turns to go -- there  _ is _ work to be done, after all -- but she sits up, suddenly.

“Move in with me.” She says.

He frowns, momentarily confused. “Move in? To…  _ what _ , your quarters?”

“Yes.” The corners of her mouth turn up, easily. “There’s more than enough room for the both of us. You would keep your office here, naturally, but it would save me from ever having to sleep in this miniscule bed.”

His heart clenches with a want so strong, it steals his breath.

To lay beside her every night. Feel the touch of her while he sleeps. To wake to her smile, and her kisses, and the warm scent of her skin.

This is not a happiness would deserve. But  _ oh... _

She hesitates, made uncertain by his silence. “...Cullen?”

He crosses the space between them in one long stride, and kisses her, firmly.  _ “Yes.  _ Yes, yes, yes.”

Her smile is so bright it hurts his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being rather long, and had far, far more sex than originally anticipated. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter specific notes: vaginal sex, anal fingering, anal plug, Oral sex, Collar & Leash


	12. Indulge Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Orlesian letter in this chapter was written by the incredible Valyrias http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias which is why it's so damn spicy. :D

****The Forbidden Oasis is equal parts terrible and beautiful.

There are vast stretches of hot, shifting sands and bare rock. The kind of scorched emptiness that make you feel hollow and raw inside if you stare at it too long. And then there is the Oasis itself. A waist deep pond that’s cool, and teeming with small silvery fish, and elegantly-legged waterfowl. Edged by hundreds of water lilies in more shades of purple than she knew existed.

The temple itself is a little of both. Old, and abandoned, yet alive and wondrous too. Scavengers have stripped the halls bare, and the ancient walls are pocketed with missing carvings and gemstone inlays, absent any gemstones. Time has worn away much of what has not been outright stolen. Here and there a broken bit of tile, or a chip of paint, whispers of the ancient glory of the temple. Solas is uncommonly tight-lipped, yet his fingers dance against the stone revealing hidden runes that make the delicate columns and arches glow, as though cast in silvery-gold filigree.

The temple is laid out like a maze. Layers of doors, and sealed chambers that they’ve no hope of breaching without a larger team. Even the most accessible rooms are exhausting to clear, and by the fifth night the party is thoroughly wrung out.

And so that night, like every night, Trevelyan sits by the edge of the pond, listening to the soft sounds of the waterfall, and reading -- or rather, _looking at_ the words -- of the Orlesian letter she’d been given. She hadn’t meant to bring it. Not really. But she’d packed hastily, and had found the letter on their way to the Oasis, tucked into the folds of her sleepwear.

It helps her relax, she’d discovered. She thinks of Cullen often, _naturally._ But mostly, she worries that _he_ worries, and then she worries that he’s working too hard, and sleeping too little. She’s seen him often enough, crouched over his desk at some unseemly hour of the night, attending to whatever new catastrophe has befallen the Inquisition. It’s easier, somehow, with the Orlesian letter in hand. Her thoughts remain almost entirely within the bedroom -- or, _bedroom activities_  -- and she finds that guessing what it _might_ say is nearly as titillating as knowing what it does.

Tonight she imagines the Great Hall. Dark, and quiet. A cluster of lit candelabras stand at attendance behind her throne. Mellow, flickering light spills across the padded seat, and glints dangerously from the tines on the back of the chair. Cullen lounges in the seat, bare to the waist, breeches already open. His cock sprouts, full and stiff from a tangle of golden-brown curls. A small, lopsided smile graces his lips as he strokes himself.

An answering smile curls at the edges of her own mouth, and she traces her fingertips across the Orlesian letter, imagining.

She imagines herself naked. Skin pebbling in the chill of the hall. Hands bound behind her back with something sturdy, but soft. She shifts to ease the strain on her shoulders and Cullen cocks an eyebrow at her. His free hand traces up her flank, gently cupping the curve of her breast, thumb swirling around -- but not actually touching -- her nipple.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does she, not beyond the soft gasps, and whines, as he caresses her. He turns her slowly, hand on her hip, until her back is facing him, then grips her bound wrists, easing her closer. She feels the hard tip of his cock press against her rear, and he pulls at her again, urging her to sit upon him. She sits. He slides _deep._ Her feet dangle, toes barely brushing the floor.

He begins to move almost at once, hips rolling. She struggles for a moment, unbalanced, but he grips her, holding her steady, until she --

“I’m quite certain what you’re doing to that letter is illegal in at least _twelve_ different cities.”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. As it is, she slides down the slope of the rock a few feet, boots splashing into the pond, sending a small lizard skittering away with an indignant squeak.

 _“Void, Dorian!”_ She snaps, cheeks flaming. “If I wanted to be snuck up on, I’d have brought Sera.”

“Well, I had no intention of _sneaking.”_ Dorian explains, wounded. “I _had_ been calling your name, but you were too busy _molesting_ that stationary to respond.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh?” He glances at the letter curiously, dropping down to the rock beside her. “Then what _were_ you doing?”

“Reading it.” She tucks the letter protectively to her bosom. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

 _“Obviously.”_ She agrees, and glares at him. “Now go away.”

“Of course.” He sidles closer. “Forgive my morbid curiosity, but you don’t read Orlesian. And anyone addressing you as _‘my darling Inquisitor’,_ should know that, yes?” He raises his eyebrows at her, innocently.

“I didn’t know you read Orlesian!”

“Of course I do.” He scoffs, plucks the letter out of her hand for a better look. “Handsome, wealthy, first born son-of-a-Magister. Too much time on my hands, even then. _And_ \-- when I’m not cleaning up the mess you lot have made -- I _do_ live in a library.” He squints at the letter. “It’s too damn dark, make a light.”

She does, calls a small flame to her fingertips, and holds it aloft. “You _are_ a fire-mage.” She reminds, grumpily.

 _“As are you.”_ He huffs. “And _I,_ need both hands to read. And _you,_ need me to translate.” He elbows her. “Now, hush.”

He studies the letter, making thoughtful, if slightly scandalized noises.

_“Dorian.”_

“Ah, yes.” He scans the letter, dramatically clearing his throat. _“My darling, Inquisitor,”_ He translates.

 _“Allow me to congratulate you on your glorious victory at Halamshiral. I watched from afar as the Inquisition dazzled all in the Ball’s attendance. Alas, I was not bold enough to approach you then, so allow me to approach you now._ This is all very dramatic, isn’t it?” He comments, pleased. _“Though it was the Inquisition that kept us safe from Florianne’s treachery, it was you who secured our glorious nation’s stability, and all while wearing that delectable dress.”_ Dorian nudges her with a knowing elbow. _“I could not tell who was more beautiful that night: you, that dashing commander --_ Cullen really did look _quite_ spectacular that night -- _the sweet Lady Montilyet, or your mysterious elven…”_

Dorian’s translation stutters to an abrupt halt, and he bursts into laughter.

“Shhhhh!” She hisses at him, alarmed.

 _“Mysterious elven manservant.”_ He hisses back, pointing at the letter. “Solas!”

“Dorian, _shut up!”_ She insists in as commanding a whisper as she can muster. Cassandra’s tent is dark, but Solas’ is lit. She can see the graceful outline of his silhouette as he ponders one of the artifacts they discovered at the temple.

Dorian wheezes with laughter, clutching his sides in an effort to stay silent.

“Maker…” He gasps, lowering his voice the _tiniest_ bit. “I’d forgotten they’d introduced him as such. The look on his face…” He clings to her arm, shaking with silent laughter. “And that absurd little hat he wore…”

 _“Dorian…”_ She pleads, plucking at his sleeve. The light in her hand wavers erratically.

“Oh, all right.” He thumbs a tear from his eye, dramatically. _“... Or your mysterious elven manservant,”_ Dorian flashes her a grin, sharp and white beneath his moustache, “ _who was not as subtle as he seemed to think, I am afraid to say._

 _“I shall get to the point. I am a connaisseuse of beauty, and you, darling, took my breath away – as did your... three... aforementioned companions. --_ Ah.” Dorian makes a flat little sound of disbelief, lips pursing.

“And?” She encourages, nudging him. “Dorian?”

He sighs, and continues reading, but the lines around his mouth stay tight. _“Your dress left nothing to the imagination, and to this day I long to see your body underneath that red satin. Your Ambassador chose well in those military uniforms; they did nothing to hide your Commander’s musculature, nothing to hide the leanness of your manservant’s body_ \-- this is the _worst_ thing you have ever had me do, you know -- _nothing to disguise the hips (oh, to think what lays between them!) of Lady Montilyet._

 _“Indulge me, Inquisitor, and imagine a gathering of this beauty.”_ Dorian makes a rude noise, and stops translating. “No, no. That is quite enough of that.”

“Dorian!”

 _“No!”_ He insists, attempting to stuff it into her bag. “I know what kind of letter this is, my dear. Erotica. Trite, and terribly crass erotica at that -- and I _hardly_ think Cullen would approve. Really, I am offended on his behalf. This...” He shuffles the letter to the last pages, scanning for the signature. “Marie de -- oh, _A Devotee of Beauty,_ my impeccable ass.”

She makes a startled sound of laughter.

 _“What?”_ Dorian snaps.

“You.” She gapes at him. “You’re jealous.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He huffs, turning his back to her. “I have no desire to be a part of some… some... _obscene_ foursome.” He gestures dismissively over his shoulder at her. Angry sparks of magic flutter from his fingertips. “I object on principle alone. _Clearly._ ” He’s silent a few moments longer before adding, “I maintain that _no one_ in their right mind, is capable of having sexual designs on Solas while he’s wearing _that hat.”_

She ducks her head to hide her smile even though Dorian’s back is turned. “They didn’t include Cole, either.” She observes.

Dorian does turn then, and the look he gives her is supremely venomous. “Cole, was _invisible.”_ He hisses. “And while there are many things one might say of Cole, _dripping with sexual prowess_ is not one of them.”

“Orlesian lunacy.” She says, touching his hand in gentle apology. “The entire letter. But, please don’t stop. I can’t ask Josephine now, obviously. _Please,_ Dorian. I _know_ you want to know what it says.”

He squints at her with the same sort of calculating focus he uses prior to any necromatic spell. “The next time you go somewhere cold and horrid, _I_ stay at Skyhold. With Bull. _And,”_ He leans heavily on the word, holding up a single finger to forestall any of her protests. “You tell me _why_ you want this translated so badly.”

“So little?” She asks wryly. “Your father would be disappointed by your bargaining tactics.”

“Well, as you haven’t any land, or money, or influence with the magisterium to offer, my father will just have to remain disappointed.” Dorian reasons. “But I wouldn’t worry. He’s quite used to it, by now.”

She gives him her most beguiling smile.

“I am _far_ too indulgent of you.” He rolls his eyes and sighs, scanning through the letter to find his place. “Ah… here. _Indulge me, Inquisitor, and imagine a gathering of this beauty._ _I have never seen your personal quarters, but I imagine they are warm and sensual._ \-- Offensively mismatched carpets and draperies, really. You should _not_ bring any Orlesian lovers home with you. They would die of shock. -- _Imagine a fire in the hearth, and your lovers naked beside you. Imagine your Commander holding you from behind, palms caressing your breasts as I… explore the… the…_ ahh… _bounty…_ uhh… _bounteous..._ ”

Dorian stumbles in his translation, flushing slightly. Mouth opening and closing for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut. “I’m not certain I can actually say this to you.”

“Can you write it, instead?”

Dorian looks momentarily scandalized at the thought, but clamps his lips together. “Fetch me quill, and ink.” He decides.

\--

Cullen’s not at the gates when she returns to Skyhold.

He often _isn’t._ Afterall, he has the running of their armies to attend to, and under his care, they’ve flourished into a massive, and well-trained force. Ranks of archers line the walls, bows gleaming. Spearmen train in the courtyard under the supervision of one of Cullen’s lieutenants. Guardsman pace the battlements, and courtyards in pairs, glittering in chainmail, and clanking in plate. Hundreds more train near the barracks below Skyhold’s main portcullis. And thousands of others are stationed across Thedas, serving in keeps, villages, manors -- and desert oases -- beneath the sigil of the Inquisition.

She stables her horse with Master Dennet, and takes a moment to enjoy the simple sights and smells of Skyhold. _Home._

Home, in a way nothing else has ever been for her. Her memories of her parent’s estate are faint. The details, fading. She remembers dark wood paneling, and a carpet the color of glinting emeralds. A cozy bed tucked against a window overlooking her Mother’s ornamental garden. Waking to the scent of sun-warmed roses.

Her memories of the Circle are sharper, but less heartwarming. High stone walls, and long, tapestry lined corridors. The flickering candlelight, and eye-watering scents of the apothecary. The constant, clanking-shuffle of Templars in armor. And the miles, and miles of brown and blighted earth outside the Circle windows. The landscape was only ever beautiful when it snowed, transformed into an endless stretch of glittering white, as though someone had tossed down a handful of stars from the sky.

Perhaps that is what makes Skyhold feel like it was built for her. The constant flutter of snow never fails to send a thrill through her. Even on warm days -- like today -- when it barely reaches the ground.

She still feels that warm sense of homecoming as she nods in polite greeting to those gathered in the Main Hall. An annoyed dignitary exclaims, _“Ah!_ The Inquisitor. _At last.”_ But she slips past the door of her chambers before anyone can intercept her, and leans heavily against the carved wood with a sigh.

_Home, indeed._

She peels off her gloves as she climbs the stairs, eyeing the dirt and sand pressed under her nails. And when she passes through the second door, there’s a flurry of motion, the sound of a body rising suddenly from water, and a startled, _“Maker’s Breath!”_

She freezes, foot on the top step, heart in her throat.

Cullen stands, dripping, in the small, round wooden tub that he prefers, completely nude, and wide-eyed with shock. His hair is a wet, dark tangle against his neck. Soft soap bubbles slide down the slopes of his shoulders, and between the muscled grooves of his torso. A ferocious blush spreads across his face, and neck, and halfway down his chest. He’s awkwardly covering his genitals with both hands. A gesture more instinct, than modesty.

“Hello.” Her lips quirk up into a smile as she takes in the sight of him.

“You’re back.” He says, a fierce joyful grin breaking through his surprise, before his expression slides back into embarrassment. “I, uh… you said I should move in, so I…” He shifts from foot to foot still clutching himself, the muscles of his thighs flexing. He clears his throat. _“I did._ I’m glad you’re back.” He offers, with a small, lopsided smile.

She crosses the room, and -- ignoring his general dampness, and startled protest -- presses herself against him. His arms go around her at once, one hand gently tucking her head against his neck.

“You smell nice.” She says with a small sigh.

A whuff of laughter against her ear. “How was the Forbidden Oasis?”

“Strange.” She says. “An Elven ruin in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but sand and secrets. Nugs. A few scattered groups of Venatori. Should have brought Bull, he always enjoys killing them.”

“Yes, but he hates sand.” Cullen reminds her. Then he shivers. A fine tremor that runs down his body, and he clutches at her harder. “Maker’s Breath, it’s cold.”

She glances down. His cock is small and tender, half-hidden in the nest of his pubic hair.

 _“Very cold.”_ He insists.

Laughing, she snags the nearby towel and wraps it around his shoulders, and then adds one of the quilts from the bed, before ushering him closer to the fire at the end of the room. His skin is still glossy with wet when he leans forward to kiss her.

She can feel the heat from the fire on one side of her face, the cool whisper of the Frostbacks against the other. And Cullen. The gentle press of his lips against hers. The soft touch of his knuckles as he strokes beneath her chin. He breathes a sigh of relief into his kisses, and she presses against him more firmly, as if to reassure him that she is here, and she is whole.

A knock on the door and Cullen freezes, pulling away at the sound of the door opening and closing.

“It’s alright.” She says, patting his arm. “I ordered tea. The staff know to leave everything at the bottom landing if I don’t answer.”

She retrieves the tray, smiling at the automatic addition of a second cup, a pair of blueberry scones, and a tiny crock of butter, setting it on a short stool near the fire.

Cullen is standing, drying himself vigorously with the towel. Skin pink and clean with scrubbing. His chest hair sticks up in licks and whorls, while his pubic hair is a bristly puff of dark cinnamon curls. His hair stands on end, one dark blonde lock falling damply across his brow. It makes him look absurdly young. He grins at her, and the creases at the corner of his eyes break the spell.

She passes him a cup of tea -- black, naturally -- as he drops back to the floor.

“You’re always taking care of me.” He muses. Long fingers curling around his cup. He flushes again, and his eyes slide away from her, as if he’s reluctant to look at her too long.

“In all fairness, I didn’t know they’d bring a cup for you.”

“I suppose it’s because these quarters are...” His brows furrow slightly, and he falls silent, flushing.

_Ours._

The word hangs unspoken in the air between them. Small, and heavy.

She buries her nose in her cup, to hide the same, sudden awkwardness he must feel. It’s absurd, really. It isn’t as though they aren’t used to eachother’s company. But the newness… the sudden _nearness_ makes her feel strangely shy.

There’s precious little that actually indicates Cullen _has_ moved in. A small trunk in the corner, with his armor stand behind it, decked with his surcoat and plate. His sword and shield are propped against her desk, and there’s a small stack of journals and ledgers where he keeps a daily account of troop movements, and a cluster of the turkey quills he favors. On the chaise near the stairwell is a tangle of blankets, with a small, flat, pillow laid out on one end. Cullen’s boots rest on the floor at the other end, stockings trailing. It almost looks as though…

“Cullen, have you been sleeping on the chaise?”

“Err… no.” His mouth twists into a flat line. _“Possibly._ It… it didn’t seem right to…” He glances at the big bed at the center of the room. “Without you…” He shakes his head. “Perhaps I should have waited until you got back to move in at all.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She says.

He flushes. The awkwardness is back, but his gaze finds hers, open, and warm, and he doesn’t look away. She sidles closer, and presses a kiss against his bare shoulder. Then another. Then his lips find hers and he pushes her back onto the furs and blankets before the fire. Their foreheads bump together a little, and she laughs, but he smothers the sound, mouth seeking hers again.

She kisses him back, eagerly, until he starts to undo the buttons of her coat. Then she wiggles away with a small laugh.

“Wait,” She asks, “I’m all sand, and --”

Cullen kisses her neck, and the breath hisses out her with a startled laugh. He mouths small nips and bites, until he rasps against the soft skin behind her ear, and she starts to squirm and protest in earnest. He gives her a calculating look, and adjusts, sitting back on his haunches, and unlacing each of her boots enough so he can pull them free. The stockings beneath are warm and creased with wear. She wrinkles her nose -- they feel gritty and slightly damp -- but Cullen doesn’t seem to mind. He digs his thumb into the arch of her foot, making her toes spread with delight. Then he gets he arms under her knees and behind her back, and with a small grunt of -- not entirely flattering -- effort, picks her up, and carries her back to the small tub.

She gives a startled _eeep_ of surprise when he stands her in the water. It’s colder than she’d like, and her toes curl in protest a moment, before she re-heats the bath with a gesture.

Cullen helps her undress. Each layer comes free with a small cascade of sand, until the bottom of the tub is covered with coarse grains. When she is completely nude, she sits, knees drawn up against her chest. The water is high enough that her breasts float slightly. There’s a cake of soap and a small pitcher next to the tub. Cullen reaches for both, pouring a warm stream of water over her shoulders, before lathering the soap between his palms.

He glides his soapy hands everywhere he can reach. Over her arms, and down her back. He flushes slightly when he palms her breasts, and she grins up at him. He extends each of her legs, one by one, and runs his hands down the length of her shin, and up the back of her knee. She giggles when his thumbs rub against the soles of her feet, and he presses a kiss to her instep.

His touch shifts, becoming less about skin, and more about muscle, and he digs his thumbs into the tops of her shoulders and along the width of her spine. She groans, shifting to give him better access, melting against him until he hits a particularly tender patch. He makes little soothing noises, and presses harder, easing the ache.

“I love you.” He says all at once, voice a tight, and little gruff.

“Don’t stop.” She insists.

He chuckles, rubbing slow circles into the base of her neck, and presses his lips into her hair. _“Never.”_

It goes on for a long while. The combination of Cullen’s strong hands, and the warmth of the water makes the tension bleed out of her. So much so, that she barely notices when he pulls her dripping from the tub, envelops her in a blanket, and ushers her before the fire.

“Now who’s taking care of whom?” She asks with a smile, leaning forward for a kiss.

“Hardly comparable.” He breathes, pressing her back to the floor. He rubs her down gently for a moment before parting the blankets around her slowly, unwrapping her by inches. When he has her bare again he makes a pleased sigh. “Maker’s Breath, you're beautiful.”

She chuckles, pleased. “Well, _cleaner_ at least.”

He glances at the jar of letters on her desk, and flushes, absurdly. _“Er…_ ought we to…?”

“Wait, I have one.” She scrambles to her feet, treating Cullen to a rather scandalous view of her her hind-quarters as she digs around in her pack, for the well-worn, purple-grey envelope of the Orlesian letter. She can still see the tiny calligraphy in the corner, where her name glints in silver. Dorian’s translation is neatly folded inside. “Here. You read it.”

He raises a brow, but unfolds it dutifully.

 _“_ _My darling, Inquisitor,”_ He reads, out loud.

 _“Allow me to congratulate you on your glorious victory at Halamshiral. I watched from afar as the Inquisition dazzled all in the Ball’s attendance. Alas, I was not bold enough to approach you then, so allow me to approach you now. Though it was the Inquisition that kept us safe from Florianne’s treachery, it was you who secured our glorious nation’s stability, and all while wearing that delectable dress.”_ Cullen grins at her, remembering. _“I could not tell who was more beautiful that night, aside from Dorian Pavus… whose..._ ah… _perfection will remain unchallenged…?”_

Cullen’s eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. She steps behind him to hide her smile, and wraps her arms around him because she can.

 _“You, that dashing commander, the sweet Lady Montilyet, or your mysterious elven_ _manservant, who was not as subtle as he seemed to think, I am afraid to say.”_ Cullen rolls his eyes, already exasperated. “Is this a love letter to the _entire_ Inquisition?”

She kisses between his shoulderblades. “Mmmmm… keep reading.”

_“I shall get to the point. I am a connaisseuse of beauty, and you, darling, took my breath away – as did your three aforementioned companions._

_“Your dress left nothing to the imagination, and to this day I long to see your body underneath that red satin. Your Ambassador chose well in those military uniforms; they did nothing to hide your Commander’s musculature, nothing to hide the…_ ah… _the leanness of your manservant’s body, (absurd hat, notwithstanding)_ _nothing to disguise the hips (oh, to think what lays between them!) of… of Lady Montilyet.”_

Cullen clears his throat, clearly embarassed, but continues reading. _“Indulge me, Inquisitor, and imagine a gathering of this beauty. I have never seen your personal quarters, but I imagine they are warm and sensual. Imagine a fire in the hearth, and your lovers naked beside you. Imagine your Commander holding you from behind, palms caressing your breasts as I explore the bounteous oasis between your thighs._

 _“Oh, to taste you on my tongue! Wine and food would be set on a bedside table, honey for tea and cream to accentuate the sweet little cakes. Imagine Lady Montilyet feeding you delectable frilly cakes. Oh, even better. Imagine you and Lady Montilyet, working together to ensure there is no trace of honey on… on..._ Maker’s Breath!”

Cullen drops the letter, eyes wide, and blank with shock.

Trevelyan scoops it up before it can flutter into the fire, and resumes reading. “Imagine… _Imagine you and Lady Montilyet working together to ensure there is no trace of honey on the Commander’s body.”_ She grins, glancing at Cullen. _“The very thought of it makes me clench my thighs together for want of reality._

 _“Imagine the flush of your manservant’s pale skin in the firelight,”_ She continues, _“his gasps and pleas as you take him into your mouth and your Commander fills you from behind.”_

Cullen makes a half-strangled sound, several shades past red.

_“Imagine the taste of him on your tongue (or the feel of his tongue on your sweetness, if you prefer), the stretch of cock or fingers in your most secret place. Imagine refreshing yourself with wine and turning around to see the Lady Montilyet between these two men, the sound of her sweet sighs as she comes undone. I have never seen her hair unbound – but I like to think that, in this, we would take turns to coax her until she gave in, and her hair fell down her back like a black waterfall. I like to think that it would be as soft as silk._

_“I imagine it often, my darling, and I long for the day such an opportunity will arise. But if this must occur without my participation, alas, make the most of it. I eagerly await your presence at the next royal fete. Perhaps then I will be bold enough to approach you properly._

_“Ever Yours,_

_“Marie de Launcet, A Devotee of Beauty”_

 

For long moments, there is only the ragged sound of Cullen’s breathing. Her eyes drop, covertly. Arousal is fairly obvious in nude men, and Cullen is quite obviously aroused. His cock stands straight up, nearly brushing his bellybutton.

“Andraste, preserve me.” He says, voice wavering.

She reaches for his arm, a touch that seems to pull him from his wide-eyed trance.

“Have you… have you ever…” He starts delicately, then cuts himself off with a little shake of his head, as though he can’t quite manage to say the words.

“Have I ever…?” She prompts, lips already curling into a smile.

Cullen blushes furiously, and rubs at the back of his neck. “Er… with… more than one?”

“Yes.” She says.

“Ah.” He swallows hard, blinking. He looks a little shell-shocked. “Two - two men… or a man, and another…”

“It was two women, actually.”

His eyebrows raise, slowly. “Oh.”

His mouth hangs open a little, pupils blown, and a little out of focus, as though imagining a tangle of feminine limbs.

 _“Oh.”_ He says again, softly.

“I’ve never been with _this_ many lovers at once, though.” She says, looking back down at the letter. “I wonder if this qualifies as an orgy, or if there’s some sort of established minimum. Five, perhaps? A dozen?”

Cullen’s eyes bug out, and he trips on his next breath so thoroughly that he has a small coughing fit. Eventually subsiding before the fire, even more red-faced than before.

“We are _not_ having an…” He shakes his head, unable to say the word. “I can’t… couldn’t possibly…”

She grins. “No orgies?”

“Not with -- _Maker,_ I work with Josephine, daily!” He sputters.

“Solas, then?” She raises her eyebrows delicately.

“That is not what I meant!” He scrubs his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. _“Maker’s Breath,_ I can’t even think straight. Why must these letters always be so --” He looks up at her, suddenly realizing. _“How_ did you get this translated?” He asks, with dawning horror. “You didn’t. Not… _Josephine…”_

“Dorian.” She says apologetically, though Cullen flops back the the ground, relieved. “He was quite put out that Bull knew about all this before he did.”

“He did?” Cullen blinks, sitting up again. “Really? You didn’t --”

“He knew about us. Almost from the very first. Just not about the letters.”

Cullen nods, thoughts clearly drifting back to the contents of the letter. He opens his mouth, frown, and shuts it with a shake of his head. “Holy, blessed Andraste.” He whispers, raggedly.

She can’t resist. She leans over and presses a kiss onto the flush of his cheeks. And then, reaches out to the tea tray and touches a single finger to the golden puddle of honey in the pot, before skimming it along his bottom lip.

Cullen freezes.

“Something about… ensuring there was no trace of honey left on the Commander’s body, hmmmm?”  She leans over to kiss him, tongue dragging against the hard line of his mouth. The honey is so sweet against her tongue, it’s almost sharp.

Cullen makes a noise like he’s forgotten entirely how to breathe, as she dips her fingers again, this time, smearing them across his belly. Golden drops slide slowly down the muscled planes.

She grins. “I suppose if I’m supposed to take it _off,_ I have to put it _on_ first.”

“I… _Maker’s Breath.”_

She drops slowly to her knees, dragging her open mouth down his stomach, following -- vaguely -- the trail of the honey. She sucks hard at a golden smear just above his bellybutton, and Cullen sucks in a startled breath. He’s still red, but arousal is fast wearing away the sharpest edge of his embarrassment. His erection bobs just below her shoulder.

He tangles his fingers in her hair, trying to urge her mouth lower, and she lets him guide her, presses sucking kisses down the long V of muscle below his hips, before dragging a single sticky finger up the length of his cock. He makes a startled sound, flinching away slightly.

She reaches again for the small jar of honey, and Cullen grumbles indistinctly. A rolling sound of protest, mostly unintelligible, save for the words _unnecessary_ and _so sticky,_ that slip free. But she anoints the ruby tip of his cock with another dollop of honey. Something drips, and she can’t tell if it’s honey, or precome. Not that it matters. She pointedly ignores his cock, and instead licks at the beads of honey caught in the hair below his belly button. Cullen whines, hips flexing.

He keeps making plaintive, urgent noises as she kisses her way up the underside of his cock. Slow, slow, teasing touches that make his thighs shiver beneath her hands. When she reaches his tip, she teases him some more, worrying at his foreskin with lips and tongue. She can smell his arousal, something sharp and musky beneath the sweetness and the soap, but she doesn’t _taste_ it until she fastens her mouth around his cock-head, and _sucks._ The salt of his seed cuts through even the sweetness of the honey. And the husky groan he makes shivers across her heart.

“Maker’s Breath, don't tease. I can't--”

He pushes her gently backwards, ushering her towards the wall. Presses her flush against the stone slab. She squeaks, trying to wriggle away -- the stone is cold against the heat of her fire-warmed back -- but he holds her in place. He grabs her hand and pulls two of her fingers, still glossy with honey, into his mouth, sucking hard, golden gaze locked onto hers.

“Cullen,” She shivers. Partly from the cold at her back, partly from the heat unfurling low in her belly.

He takes her wrists and pins them above her head, one by one. They fit easily in his grip, one hand holding her steady. She struggles a bit, and he squeezes tighter. “Open your mouth.” Cullen growls, other hand gripping the base of his cock.

She does.

The taste of honey fills her mouth. The weight of him, a heavy drag against her tongue. She can’t bob like this, back against the wall, so she simply opens her throat and lets him take her. He cants his hips, presses himself in, and out, again, and again, and again. For the aggressiveness of the position, Cullen is gentle, and measured with his thrusts. Still, it’s a messy affair. The honey makes her drool, and strings of the sweet, slickness drip off her chin, and onto her breasts.

Cullen growls her name, pressing deeper, hips flexing rhythmically as he fucks her mouth. “Deep breath,” He gasps, pulling back long enough for her to take one, before he presses in again, and holds.

She can feel the head of his cock, nearly brushing the back of her throat. He shivers, pressing in, infinitesimally, before backing out again, and in, once again. Each thrust accomplished with the tiniest, tiniest of movement of his hips.

 _“Maker,_ I--” He pulls back so suddenly, she gags a little.

She’s panting, breathing heavily, and so is he. His hand finds his cock, and he pumps furiously up and down his length.

“Open your mouth.” He asks for the second time. _“Please.”_

When she does, he doesn't press in, just _leans,_ until his cock is nearly against her lips. He works himself. Breath coming in stilted gasps, chest heaving. Keeps tugging until his back arches sharply, and with a hoarse, and heartfelt cry, he comes.

She catches most of Cullen’s spend in her mouth. A single spurt goes high, and lands across her upper lip.The rest falls. Drops of liquid heat against her chin, and breasts, and collarbones.

She swallows.

Cullen is red, and gasping. Forearms braced against the wall to keep from collapsing. “Sorry,” He pants, chest heaving. “Sorry, I didn't -- _Maker, your mouth.”_

She chuckles. Rubs her fingertips against the back of his thighs, making soothing noises and pressing kisses against the side of his cock. They’re both still slick with sweet and salt.

She makes to wipe at her mouth, but gets there first, falling to his knees, sealing his lips over hers. It makes her dizzy, the way he kisses her. Arms folded around her, mouth open, tongue, against her own. She tries to whisper his name, but he swallows the sound.

“I can taste myself on you.” Cullen gasps when he finally pulls away. “Look... look at you…”

She’s a mess, and feels like one. Only the way Cullen looks at her, warm and wide-eyed, pupils absolutely blown, keeps her from shying away. He leans closer, and drags his still-hard cock across the tops of her breasts. Rubs himself over the fullest part of her curves, and teases each nipple until it stands out. His fingers follow suit, gently fondling her breasts, plucking at the raised points until she’s gasping and twisting in his arms.

“Cullen, please!”

He grins, reaching for the pot of honey himself, regarding the puddle of gold for a moment with an almost grim expression, before dipping two fingers inside. His brows furrow at the stickiness as he scissors his fingers, testing the viscosity. “Look at me.” He asks, touching his forehead with hers. “Please.”

He’s a little hard to look at. Gold, and glowing. He’s still quite flushed.

 _Rose gold._ She thinks, and giggles.

As though spurned by her humor, his expression oscillates. From tender, into something a little more mischievous, watching her intently as he reaches down, and presses his two honey-slickened fingers up inside her. Entering her with one long, insistent motion.

 _“Cullen!”_ Her fingernails rake against the top of his shoulders as her body arches against him, but she holds his gaze as his fingers pump in, and out, in, and out. His thumb slides between her folds, finding, and worrying at the raised nub of her clit. She keens, hips writhing.

“Maker’s Breath.” He gasps. Then he grins, the scar at the corner of his mouth wrinkling, and pulls his fingers free.

She cries out, bereft.

Cullen flops onto his back, stretched out before her. His hands grip her thighs urging her closer. Guiding. Lifting her. He settles her into position, straddling his head.

She looks down at the wild blonde curls, and the devilish grin between her thighs. _“I--”_ She gasps breathlessly.

“My turn.” He smirks, pulling her down against his open mouth.

She wonders if he tastes that bolt of sweetness, the bright note of honey, that melts into a musky intimacy -- like she did. But then Cullen moves his tongue against her, and she wonders no more. She can’t. With every teasing flick he robs her of her senses. One by one. Until the only sense that’s left is _touch._

_His._

His mouth. His lips. Tongue. Fingers, even.

“Mmmmmm?” He makes an inquisitive noise, and she whines in response, fingers tightening in his hair. Cullen rumbles with soft laughter.

She tries to keep herself raised, tries to keep hips still, tries desperately not to smother him. But with each lick, the soft caress of Cullen’s tongue becomes something insistent, almost greedy. He sucks at her swollen flesh, mouth hungry. Holds her open with long fingers, and drinks deeply of her shattered cries. Her hips shift, and jerk in his grasp. Until she’s writhing against him, unraveling as easily as a pulled thread.

He grips the tops of her hips, pressing her closer, and she shivers. Stubble rasps between her thighs as she grinds down, helplessly. Heat blooms wherever he touches her. His tongue curls inside, pumping gently, and she can feel her hips flex in time to the pace he sets. She floats. Pulled higher and higher as he fucks her with his mouth, until she’s bent over his head, fingers in his hair, all but screaming his name.

She thinks she feels her own, whispered in return, against the slickness of her core. And it is that, that barest puff of breath, of warm sensation, that sends her reeling over the edge of true pleasure. She comes hard, riding his open mouth. Gasping. Shivering. Knees drawn up. The world around her explodes into stars.

Awareness comes back in bits and pieces. The fire is burning low, the last of the wood popping in a small slower of sparks as it’s devoured by the flame. The blankets are tangled around her, one awkward fold presses uncomfortably into the small of her back. Her hand rests limply on her breasts, a warm, heavy weight that feels faintly sticky. And Cullen. Propped up on one elbow above her, face smeared with slickness and sweet, looking equal parts sheepish, and entirely pleased with himself.

 _“I love you.”_ She breathes, feverently.

He laughs, startled. Lips pulling up into an even wider, and more lopsided grin, and he leans over to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and bites at the sharp edge of her collar bone. “What was it you said earlier? _Don’t stop?”_ He rolls, hand beneath her knee, and hikes one leg over his shoulder, as he settles his weight atop her. She can feel his cock jut between them, hard again. _Still._

“Let me…” He runs his thumb across the rim of the honey jar, then reaches for her breast with an appreciative sound. Her nipple stiffens, rising to meet his palm. He teases her with a sticky thumb. Squeezing. Caressing. Circling the tiny, flushed peak with slow, tender strokes, before bending his head.

Golden curls fall across her collarbones as he suckles her, tongue tracing the path his fingers took. She gasps, arching into him, and he snakes an arm beneath her back, holding her tight, and steady as he enters her. Without hands to guide him, he has to shift a little until he finds the perfect alignment, pressing in slowly, but firmly, until he breaches her with the tip of his cock.

Cullen makes a deeply satisfied sound, mouth still against her breast.

The residual stickiness of the honey, adds a little thrill of friction as he thrusts in and out. Each time, a little harder. Deeper. She clasps one hand at the back of his neck, another above her, bracing herself as he begins to fuck her in earnest.

Cullen grunts with effort as he rides her. Arms trembling, face pressed against her breast. He slides his hand down the curve of her hip, and over her ass, seeking the point of their joining.

“So deep…” He growls in her ear, fingers skimming over the slickness of her folds.

She’s stretched. Filled. Pushed again to the point of breaking, by the relentless force of his hips. “Come… come with me, Cullen.” She asks, breathless. Teeth fixed on her lower lip. “Don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t.

He grinds into her, fingers bruising, body tight with strain. She orgasms half a heartbeat after he does, and isn’t sure who makes that harsh, and broken cry, or if their voices twine -- as they do -- into a single sound of joy.

Cullen collapses atop her, going utterly boneless in the wake of his climax. She wraps her arms around him, pressing him close, feeling the way his heart hammers against her ribs. His brow is dotted with sweat, and his hair’s a wreck, so she hesitates only a moment before carding her still glistening fingers through his curls. He rumbles something, leaning down to kiss her, chin slick and golden. Their lips brush together, soft and sweet, but she doesn’t kiss him for very long before squirming away.

“You’re so _sticky!”_ She complains, laughing.

“I know.” He says, a little bleakly, rolling onto his back.

“Want another bath?”

“Maker, _yes.”_

\--

They emerge from their quarters some time later, happy, and damp, and hand in hand. The Great Hall is it’s usual bustle. Clusters of nobles and Inquisition soldiers alike turn to greet her. For a moment, she has the irrational urge to drop Cullen’s hand. But their secret -- such as it was -- is certainly not a secret any longer. Cullen must feel her hesitation for he squeezes her hand, gently, but deliberately. And guides her through the gathering crowds and into the War Room with a practiced ease.

They are the first to arrive. The room is dim, candelabra's in the corners not yet lit. Cullen makes use of their momentary solitude, and leans in to kiss her cheek.

“My balls are still sticky.” He grouses.

She fizzes with laugher, then makes a sharp, startled sound, as the hand resting on her shoulder suddenly clamps down in a death-grip.

“Josephine.” Cullen croaks. His face undergoing several alarming color changes.

“Commander.” The Ambassador nods in greeting, sweeping into the dim room in a flurry of gold, and silk, and flashing white teeth. “Inquisitor, I am glad to see you have returned safely.”

“Yes, it’s… good to be home.” She glances at Cullen to ensure that he’s still breathing.

“We all worry so when you’re gone. The Commander in particular.” Josephine teases.

Cullen makes a pained sound.

“I’ve taken the liberty of inviting the others to the council. Leliana is keen on -- _Oh!_ Here they are now -- Dorian. Solas. I do apologize for the short notice.”

Dorian grins, sauntering into the room. “My four favorite people, all in the same room. Where else would I be? Inquisitor.” His smile broadens. _“Commander.”_

Cullen retreats entirely to the far side of the table, cheeks absolutely flaming.

“You are too kind, Dorian.” Josephine returns, and sets to lighting the candles around the room.

Solas raises a brow at Dorian, but mercifully, remains silent. Drifting instead, to the Ambassador’s side, and offering to assist with the candles. Tiny bursts of magic spark, and the war room is suddenly suffused with warm, wavering light.

Trevelyan uses their momentary distraction to slide closer to her fellow mage and fix with a level stare. _“Dorian.”_

“If you make me go, I will _never_ forgive you.” He mutters at her under his breath. _“Ever.”_

The sound of the door opening, and Leliana and Cassandra stride in, side by side. There are few similarities between the two women, but their steps, when the walk beside each other, are always in perfect sync. And when the right and left hands are settled, Josephine lights the very last candle on her writing tablet with a flick of her wrist, and a whiff of sulphur from the match.

“Shall we begin?”

For a time, it is easy enough to forget the letter.

Solas’ voice takes on it’s usual lilting cadence as he describes the history of the Temple, and the difficulties breaching its defenses. But when he speaks about the artifacts they recovered, about the small fonts of power they discovered, his reserved nature dissolves, and he confiscates Josephine’s quill so he can sketch out a quick map of the Temple’s layout, and note their locations.

Trevelyan takes a step closer. Drawn by the the excitement in his voice, in the quick, fluttery movements of the quill. She touches the map, just for a moment, and their fingers bump together as he gestures unexpectedly.

There’s a quick intake of breath from across the table.

It’s Cullen. Face so red, he’s almost purple. Dorian is beside him, attempts at nonchalance abandoned, and he glances between the Commander, and Solas and herself -- and back again -- fairly fizzing with amusement, and with an intensity that suggests he’s trying to will them all into fornicating on the the war table.

If Josephine, or Solas notice Cullen’s strange behavior, they’re diplomatic enough to ignore it. Leliana, at least, is subtle. Peering at Cullen with a deep, and pointed interest from under the brim of her hood. Cassandra, however, openly gapes at him.

“Are you _ill,_ Commander? You look --”

“I'm fine.” He interjects tersely.

“Are you sure--”

 _“Very.”_ He growls.

“You are _certain_ you’re not having a heart attack?” Cassandra’s eyes narrow at Cullen. “Because you look as though you are dying.”

“I’m not -- oh, _for the love of the Maker.”_ He stalks towards the door. “I just need some air. Carry on without me.”

Trevelyan glares meaningfully at Dorian as he slides oh, so casually around the war table towards her.

“There’s so much sexual tension in the room, I can barely stand it.” He hisses at her.

“Not helping.” She hisses back.

He chuckles, unhelpfully.

Solas and Josephine continue to discuss the labyrinth-like structure of the temple, while Cassandra and Leliana are busy debating the likelihood that another giant will move in to claim the territory of one they’d killed. They eventually compromise. Which means that Leliana decides to send more scouts to occupy the lower Inquisition base, and Cassandra agrees to let her.

Talk meanders slowly from the Forbidden Oasis, to matters of Skyhold proper. Yet by the time they are finished, Cullen has still not returned.

She finds him as soon as they leave the war room. He’s seated at the chair in front of Josephine’s desk, head in his hands, curls an unruly mess. At all times of day the Ambassador’s office is well lit, suffused with golden light from the stained-glass of her windows. Despite the peacefulness of the room, Trevelyan feels a spike of unease shoot through her, before Cullen looks up, and she realizes he’s simply lost in thought, and no longer upset.

She smiles, “Cullen, are you --?”

“I need to speak to Solas.” He interrupts. Leveling the Elf behind her shoulder with an inscrutable look. His voice is strained. And excited. “Alone.”

Solas inclines his head politely, and follows Cullen back into the war room as the others files out. The door shuts behind them.

“So,” Dorian leans closer to her, not even bothering to hide his grin. “Which one do think will be the bottom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the chapters in this fic are around 3.5k. This ones nearly 8k. But GODDAMN, I do love bff Dorian.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Orgy (letter only), sex + food, oral sex, vaginal sex


	13. At Her Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amazing letter in this chapter was written by @ladylorelitany -- it was one of my faves when I received it. :)  
> (please see chapter specific tags in the end notes if you have any squicks)
> 
> \--
> 
> Also just a massive massive thank you to all of you who've stuck through this story. Your support has meant the world to me.

When she wakes up, she is alone.

It is not a terribly unanticipated state to find herself -- she was alone when she fell asleep -- but she had expected Cullen to have been in bed _at some point_ during the night. But the pillow beside hers is undented, the corner of the blanket, still neatly tucked.

He’d spent the the rest of the evening with Solas in the war room, and possibly, the entire night. She rather hopes that isn't the case. Dorian would die laughing, after all.

It is her custom to spend the first part of the morning tangled in the quilts, stubbornly ignoring the rising sun. But instead she extricates herself from the bed with a sad sigh, and a hiss for the chill in the air. She dresses simply, too tired for her usual robes, and grabs a shawl near the chaise in place of a proper cloak.

Skyhold seems as lazy as she feels. She’s hardly ever up this early, and the usual bustle of the Great Hall has been reduced to a stocky dwarf carefully tending the fireplaces set into the walls, and a drunken noble snoring peacefully at one of the long tables. She smiles at the former, and ignores the latter, stepping quietly into Solas’ atrium.

The room smells of paint, and old books, and secrets. Solas’ latest mural is still little more than an underpainting. A dark patch of blue-black streaked with delicate chalk lines. She’s seen Solas so often, tunic rolled up to his elbows, fingertips dotted with paint, that it’s easy enough to imagine that he _should_ be here now, back bowed, sketching in the early morning light.

But he isn’t.

She takes the footbridge to Cullen’s office. But she can tell almost at once that he isn’t there either. No spill of light beneath the door. No guards weaving through the tower. And when she peeks her head inside, the room is dark, and cold, and unusually tidy.

Where _are_ they?

She meanders through Skyhold, crossing the battlements, and the empty training courtyard below. The doors of the Herald’s Rest are thrown open, and Cabot -- still dressed in his nightgown, hairy knees poking out below the frayed hem -- is busy throwing out a handful of off-duty scouts and hungover dignitaries who didn’t manage to make it to bed the previous night.

But no Cullen.

No Solas either, for that matter.

The Iron Bull is there, of course. Leaning up against one of the raw wood columns with such a carefree posture that it’s clear he’s keeping an eye out, in case the surly bartender has any trouble. He turns his head towards her, but from this angle, all she can see of his face is the silver flash of his eye-patch.

“Try the small-hall near the vault.” He says.

She makes an annoyed sound. Bull is as bad as Leliana. But she reverses direction and makes a beeline back to the Great Hall. The stairs down to the small-hall are cracked, and dusty. It’s a part of the castle that sees little activity, the door sticks a bit when she presses in on it, then swings open with a strained, splintery sound.

Cullen and Solas are there, kneeling on the floor, side-by-side, heads bent so close together over the same over-sized book that their foreheads are practically touching. Solas is muttering _something_ as he reads a passage about mitigating the backdraft of arcane explosions. Cullen’s tiny exclamations fill the empty space each time Solas draws breath.

She makes a flat sound, generally annoyed at having been awake so early. _Doubly_ annoyed that, having found them at last, they’re rather too endearing to stay annoyed _at._

Cullen looks up. He’s in his shirtsleeves, hair a  tousled mess. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, yet he _vibrates_ with excitement. A huge grin splits his face. A grin that morphs almost at once into guilt when he gets a good look at her.

 _“Sorry!”_ He blurts out, lumbering to his feet. “I’m sorry. Just one more hour -- we’re so _close_ to something -- and then I’ll come to bed.”

“Bed?” Her brows raise. “Cullen, it’s _morning._ What are you --? Were you here all night?”

“Maker, I didn’t mean to be.” Cullen blinks, rubbing at the scruff along his cheeks. “There aren’t any windows down here, and… and…” Something flutters across his face. “And I… Maker, that was supposed to be our first night together, and I missed it.” He says softly, shoulders sagging.

He looks so much like a guilty puppy -- crestfallen, yet still _buzzing_ with excitement -- that she has to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “Adamant?” She asks, finding her Her voice after a moment. “This was about Adamant?”

Cullen nods. “It suddenly occurred to me that I’d been going about it all wrong. Of _course_ Adamant has been unbreakable when measured against _traditional warfare maneuvers._ But you said it yourself, the best of Thedas. And the way Solas spoke at the council -- we _can’t_ break the walls with trebuchets, and frontal assaults. We need magic, and -- and explosives. Already Gatsi’s knowledge of stone has been -- What?” He blinks at her incredulous expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t -- I suppose I thought…” She shakes her head, at a loss for words. “Solas…”

“You thought…” His eyes widen as he remembers the letter. “And you thought that he -- that we….”  Cullen turns bright red. “Of course, you did.” He mutters rubbing the back of his neck and glancing around nervously. _“Maker’s Breath._ I didn’t.” He offers.

“I know.” She says.

 _“Disappointed?”_ Dorian waltzes past her with a wicked grin, arms laden with a stack of books which he deposits noisily on the floor beside Solas. _“There._ That’s everything from Nigel Intog’s _Force Applied._ Though I don't know why we're bothering, it’s clear half his experiments were theoretical, at best, and the man is rather over-fond of puns. By which I mean, he makes puns.”

Solas shoots the other mage an exceedingly dry look.

“I'm sorry.” Cullen says softly, taking her hand, and ignoring the pair of mages bickering on the floor. “I'll make it up to you. I promise.”

She squeezes his hand back. “Show me what you've done.”

He puffs up a bit with excited pride, and tugs her further into the room. It isn't just Dorian and Solas there. Gatsi and Rocky are squatting in the corner of the room, amidst a ramshackle assortment of rock slabs. They’re speaking in voices low enough that she can’t quite catch their conversation, but they are nose-to-stone examining a sand colored slab heavily threaded with pale pink striations. Gatsi is -- presumably -- expounding on the quality and characteristics of the stone, while Rocky -- also, presumably -- is explaining how one might best blow it up. Dagna is there as well, having confiscated the back wall, already covered in schematics and various unintelligible, but dangerous looking designs sketched out in charcoal.

It is there that Cullen explains the foundation of their plan. Spellwork to nullify the castle’s magical defenses, followed by a series of physical attacks. Trebuchets and explosives. Not a head-on strike, as is customary -- the walls are reinforced against such attacks, but an _angled_ one that exploits the natural weakness of the stone.

Cullen frowns, pausing mid-explanation to ponder a series of notes in a hand she doesn't recognize. “There's still much to be done. Gatsi informs us that if the calculations are off by even a hairsbreadth the stone won't fracture as it ought. And there still the matter of _getting_ enough of these Dwarven explosives in the first place. I intend to ask Bull about _gatlok,_ I have reservations about using any explosive agent crafted by someone called _Dwarkin the Mad._ And there's still the matter of how to -- _what?”_

“You,” She says, smiling, “are the only person in the world who gets _this_ excited about siege warfare.”

“Solas finds it interesting.” He grumps. But the corners of his mouth turn up when she rises up on her toes, and kisses him softly on the cheek.

“Then, I’m glad you have each other.” She grins.

\--

_Rift Mage._

What _else_ would the Inquisitor be? Her primary job description includes sealing _rifts,_ after all.

But her arms tremble with strain, and she bites back a curse, wishing -- for the thousandth time -- that she’d chosen to train as a Knight Enchanter instead. Swinging a blade -- even a spirit blade -- _had_ to be easier than pulling boulders from the realm beyond.

Solas had surprised her by appearing at the courtyard behind the stables where she usually trains. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual. He often substitutes for her Trainer, who has a tendency to wander, and forgets how to find the tiny corner of Skyhold she’s reserved for rift training. But today, she finds his presence a little distracting.

 _More_ than a little distracting.

Solas moves with an easy sort of sensuality. Confident and steady. Mastering rift magic as easily as he does every other school.

_You are making excellent progress._

It’s what Solas usually says to her. (Though she’s honestly never sure if she is -- pulling rocks from the fade is nothing at all like calling fire. It requires an _effort_ that makes all the bones in her arm, ache. She hopes he can actually _sense_ her bending the fade -- a tap, a ripple -- _she_ certainly can’t tell. And she hasn’t yet conjured anything as solid as smoke, let alone a rock.) Instead, today he sighs, ginger brows pulling together into what could _almost_ be described as a frown, and says: “You are not paying attention.”

She glares at him, though it’s true. “I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

She expects Solas to nod sagely, magnanimous with understanding, and speak to her of Cullen’s brilliant plan for Adamant. Instead he tilts his head, and asks: “Has this to do with a… _private letter_ the Commander may have received?”

_Shit._

She gapes at him.

He makes soft, but satisfied sound. “I shall take that as a yes.”

“How--?” She snaps her jaw shut. “I swear, if you tell me you saw it in the fade, I’ll--”

“No.” The corners of his mouth tuck up with amusement. “Not at all. One would never describe Dorian as a subtle man, I’m afraid.”

She presses her lips together, making a mental note to have Dorian swiftly, and painfully executed.

Solas’ smile deepens, seeing her expression. “He did not betray your confidence.” He assures her. “It is only that I drew my own conclusions based on his… _delight,_ and Cullen’s obvious discomfort at the war council.”

“He… didn’t talk to you about it last night? The letter?” She asks, hesitantly. “Then how…?”

A single shoulder lifts. The motion, half shrug, and half dismissal. “I had been wondering when you would read yours.”

 _“Yours?”_ She echoes, blinking. “Yours. You--?”

“Josephine received one very similar to mine. I had assumed that this _Marie de Launcet_ \-- that was her name, wasn’t it? -- had written to us all.”

“Well…” She makes a shocked sound, feels her cheeks grow a little pink at the thought. “That was very… industrious of her.”  
  
Solas nods slowly. “Josephine has not made arrangements for a formal reply, if that is a concern. Apparently these communications are purely for pleasure, and not politics.”

_Pleasure._

She feels her cheeks flush with heat.

“I… feel as though I owe you an apology…” She says, brow furrowing. “For… _something,_ I don’t know…”

“The letter was no hardship, if that is your concern.”

“What was it then?”

He startles her by laughing. A surprisingly low and easy sound. “An adequate example of literary seduction, I assume. For Orlais.” He adds. “The flow was rather unfocused, and the prose was terrible, but the subject was not distasteful. Thought, I would have been more surprised if it _had_ been elegantly composed, given the origins.”

She risks a glance at him. They’ve gone from discussing arcane battle tactics to Orlesian orgies in record speed. But Solas is completely composed. Hip braced against the wall, one long leg folded neatly beneath him. He brushes a hand against his cheekbones, wicking away the faint sheen of sweat.

“Cullen nearly stopped breathing when he read it.” She admits, the corner of her lips twitching.

“I suspect the Commander is unused to such propositions.” Solas says.

“But you are?”

The look he gives her is amused, and entirely unreadable. “Not _used to,_ no. But I am not so easily scandalized.”

It is hard, in that moment, not to notice that Solas is beautiful. Cheeks flushed with exertion. Eyes bright. With an easy, humorous curl to his lips she’s rarely seen. He’s _striking,_ really. Long, and lean, every feature sharp and dignified.

It is equally hard not to wonder what it might take, to scandalize him.

His grip on his staff tightens a little, as he shifts against the wall. And she imagines what it might be like to watch those long, slender fingers tangle themselves in Cullen's curls, or wrap themselves around the base of his--

Fuck. _Fuck._

She remembers herself enough to look around. Cole is often a silent shadow at Solas’ side, and the last thing she wants -- the absolute last -- is for the spirit-boy to pluck a random fantasy from her mind and carry it back to Solas. Or worse, across the entire Inquisition. But the spirit boy is, thankfully, no where to be seen. And Solas’ expression is mild, and untroubled.

He turns to her, head slightly cocked. “Another attempt?”

“Of couse.” She nods. Trying very hard not to think of letters, and Orlais, and graceful, Elhven hands.

\--

It is amazing how quickly the blood-flow of Skyhold re-orients itself around its new heart; a corner of the ancient fortress that Cullen has carved entirely for his new team. Varric calls them _The Breakers,_ and besides Solas, Dagna, Dorian, Gatsi and Rocky, Cullen recruits The Iron Bull -- who better to bring down a wall than a man trained only to find weaknesses; and Morrigan, who, with her ruthlessness and eclectic wisdom, seems slightly pleased, and slightly annoyed to have been included. Helsima is put to work as a researcher and flits through the team, taking notes, correcting annotations, and keeping things in a general sort of order.

She sees little of her companions in the days that follow, and even less of Cullen.

They do manage, _technically_ , to spend their first night in bed together -- if only in bits and pieces. One evening she finds Cullen in their bed, sprawled face-down across the top of the quilt, fast asleep. Unarmored, but still in his boots. She tries to shift his bulk without waking him, but isn’t quite equal to the task, so she simply curls herself around his hip, and closes her eyes. When she wakes sometime later, Cullen is gone.

And then one morning, he isn’t.

Her fingers find him first. She reaches for the covers when she first begins to rouse, intending to pull them up over her ears, and steal a few more minutes of sleep. But instead of the thick, down-filled quilt, her hand closes around something warm, and solid.

She jerks awake.

She’d been alone when she’d fallen asleep, and for a moment she has the -- not entirely irrational -- fear, that Sera has invited something small and scaley into her bed.

But it's just Cullen.

Arm flung up over his face, quilt wadded up beneath his legs. He's breathing heavily, breath rumbling in a soft snore. There's a crumple of paper beside him, and more loose pages strewn across the bed. She pries one out from underneath her own buttock, and smoothes out the creases.

It’s the outline of a rough battle plan written in Cullen's own hand. It's not entirely intelligible -- it's only a fragment afterall -- but it details how the attack plan might vary depending on how, or _if,_ the warden warriors decide to enter the fray.

Cullen has made a series of neat annotations in the margins if the page.

 

_Inquisitor et al. expected on the southwest battlements._

_Archers to cover the Inquisitor in the courtyard._

_Move available troops to flank the Inquisitor._

_Watch Inquisitor for injury, or signs of fatigue._

 

She blinks against the sudden prickle of tears. He wears himself ragged trying to keep her safe. Trying to stay ahead of every unexpected twist and outcome of the impending battle.

“Oh, Cullen…”

He stirs at the sound of her name. Wakens enough to come to fully with a startled snort. Eyes snapping into focus. _“Wha--?”_  He bolts upright, shoving disheveled blond curls out of his eyes. “Shit, I--”

“Fell asleep doing work in bed?”

“Yes, damnit.” He starts to scoop up the fallen papers, already dragging himself out of bed. “And I meant to have this copy prepared for Dagna in the morning, which is now. She has a rather _colorful_ \-- _”_

She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Stay? Just for a minute. I’ve missed you.”

Cullen makes a quick, pained intake of breath. A sharp line appears between his brows, but smooths out when he looks at her. He swallows hard. “I’ve missed you, too.”  Settles slowly back onto the bed, clutching the papers in one hand. “My fault.” His voice is soft, and rough, and he pulls her against him, strokes his hand down her side as she wriggles closer. “I'm… My fault."

Despite the cracks in Cullen’s voice, she settles against him with a contented sigh. The heavy thud of Cullen’s heart beneath his tunic, is steady, and strong, and soothing enough that she’s half-tempted to let it lull her back to sleep. But she _does_ miss him. So she breathes in the warmth of his scent -- like ink and iron, always -- and clambers carefully atop him. Elbows and knees pointed enough that he utters a brief _Oof, Maker’s Breath_ of protest.  

She’s not sure what Cullen does with the report, maybe simply chucks it over the edge of the bed, but his arms -- both of them -- come up around her, holding her firmly against him, as his mouth finds hers. She leans into the kiss, making a low, approving sound in the back of her throat, until she feels a hand slide over her backside and begin to ruck up her nightrail.

 _“Hmmmm…_ and what do you think you’re doing, Commander?”

He makes a matching noise of satisfaction. “Apologizing.”

“I _should_ say that you have nothing to apologize _for.”_ She grins, runs her finger beneath the neckline of his tunic, where his color is starting to rise. “But I don't want to dissuade you.” She grins. “Though, if you _really_ wanted to apologize…” Her eyes flick to the jar on her desk, still nearly brim-full with letters.

Cullen makes a thoughtful, and amused sound. Pausing, as if to consider her request. But she can feel the press of his cock against her hip, and a shiver of anticipation rushes through her. He runs a finger beneath her jaw, tips her chin up, and kisses her again, long, and slow, and deep. His hand begins creeping up the back of her bare thigh, thumb tracing just below the shelf of her buttocks.

“Well?” She asks.

He huffs in reply, gives her buttock a brief, one-handed squeeze, and clambers out of bed. “You know, I really ought to-- _ow, shit!”_

Cullen catches his foot on something on the floor, and stumbles. Only years of training saves him from losing his footing all together. He swears, loudly, and thoroughly, flushing. _“What--?"_

It’s a box. Nearly knee high, and built of a smooth, shiny wood. Secured with a length of diaphanous gold ribbon, with a square burgundy envelope tucked neatly beneath.

“Oh, for the _love of Andraste!”_ Cullen swears again, glowering. He looks a bit as though he’d like to kick it.

“They’ve been moving the rest of your things over from your office all last week”. She gestures towards Cullen’s newly-arrived stack of oversized books, spare pair of boots, and his formal uniform -- all tucked into a neat pile by the bookshelf. “I must have forgotten to move it out of the way.”

Cullen snorts, rubbing at his offended shin. “No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” She agrees amicably, and slides off the bed.

“I’d _completely_ forgotten I still had this.” Cullen glowers at the box. “It came early, when I was still burning the letters. This wasn’t so easy to smuggle to Josephine’s fireplace.” He picks it up, clearly wishing he _had_ made the effort after all.

“Do you think it’s another plug? Or a dildo, perhaps.” She asks. “Or several?”

He gives her a scandalized look, flushing. “You needn't sound _quite_ so excited.”

“Aren't you?”

He snorts, and sets the box down with a heavy _thunk. “Suspicious.”_

She grins, carefully undoes the bow so it doesn't snarl -- it really is quite pretty -- and drops the length of ribbon on the bed. “Letter first?”

 _“No.”_ And with that, Cullen flips open the lid.

There are several coils of rope inside, wide around as Cullen's thumb. Pale, with metallic threads woven throughout. They glisten inside the box like enchanted treasure.

 _“Oh.”_ Cullen’s eyes widen. He runs his finger along the edge of the box, but can't quite bring himself to touch the rope inside. The back of his neck flares scarlet. “This is…” He clears his throat several times. “Well, then.”

Arousal shivers across her skin. In the past, Cullen’s pinned her down, but he’s only bound her the once. Tied her legs apart and taken her. It hadn’t been planned -- only the fault of circumstance and passion. But the thought of being entirely immobile as Cullen used her as he liked…

Or the reverse…

Her heart thuds heavily.

She unfolds the letter -- written in a beautiful hand with dark gold ink -- and reads it, outloud.  _“To my dearest Ser Rutherford and his lover, the Inquisitor,_

_“You are a man used to command, and it makes you wary. I would have your lover deprive you of those senses which prevent you from experiencing pure, unbridled pleasure.”_

Cullen glances up, surprised. _“Me?”_  He croaks. “I thought -- I had _assumed…”_ His expression goes strangely flat, the way it does when he’s trying to conceal some strong emotion. He reaches out to touch the ropes, just once. Fingers light against the golden coil.

Something about the way he touches the rope, hesitant and reverent, makes her itch to do the same.

She takes a deep breath, and reads, _“Please accept the items that accompany this letter as a means to do so, and if you ever desire a third party in your boudoir, I hope you will consider me a suitable companion._

_“Forgive the extravagance of having the items made from gold silk. I can see that you are a simple Fereldan man, but the color so perfectly matches your hair and eyes that I could not resist.”_

Cullen snorts, and plucks the top-most coil of rope from the box. There’s something beneath; a sleek length of black velvet. Long, and tapered at the tips. He pulls it from the box and arches a brow at her.

 _“The blindfold removes your sight,”_ she continues, _“a small price to pay for the heightening of your other senses. Your hearing, your sense of smell, and your ability to taste will all be keener, and your skin will be more sensitive as well._

_Close your eyes for a moment and imagine it, darling. Are you aroused? Perhaps gently stroking your impressive length with a large, rough hand as you read?”_

She pauses. Risks a glance at Cullen, who shoots her an annoyed look over the edge of the letter.

She continues, grinning. _“I hope so. Enjoy yourself for a moment, because soon you will rely entirely on her for your release._

_“The four padded silk ties are for your limbs, one for each hand and foot. Make sure that they are securely fastened to the posts of the bed. I noted the way your jacket strained against your broad shoulders at the ball, and I’m certain that you could break the bonds if you wished if they were improperly knotted. When you are thoroughly trussed, you shall be at her mercy. Trust me, if the thought makes you nervous. Later you will thank me._

_“You cannot imagine what it feels like to be tied until you have experienced it. Has she used her mouth on you? I am certain you are exceedingly worthy of being worshipped in such a manner. Now imagine what it will be like when you cannot tell what she will do next, when you can feel her but cannot see her. Every lick, every suck will be ten times as intense, I promise you._

_“I cannot help but be distracted by the thought of your naked body, your muscles straining against your bonds, your lips quivering as you succumb to pleasure. So alas, I will have to leave you with nothing else but your own imagination and that of your lover as I adjourn to my bed with only thoughts of you to keep me warm._

_“I am, Ser, intimately yours, if only in mind._

_“Lady Arabella Blanchard”_

 

She eyes him thoughtfully, his breathing is deep, but steady. Color high. “Did Bull have any advice for this?”

Cullen nods. “He… it can get complicated, but… Use a knot that holds, but doesn't get tighter, in case I… um, _struggle.”_ He licks his lips. “Use more than one pass of the rope. Watch for discoloration in any limbs that are tied. _Oh!”_ He says, remembering. “And you’ll need a knife.”

She raises her brows. “A _knife?”_

“In case you need to cut the ropes, yes.” He says, already retrieving his boot knife from his boot, a plain blade with a wickedly sharp point. “Quicker than untying them.” He sets the knife on the bed-side table. “Now what?”

She reaches into the box without answering. The ropes feel smoother than she expected. Not silky, but soft, the way rope gets when it’s well-used, though this is clearly new -- there’s no fraying anywhere. She tests one against her open palm. The coil is heavier than it looks, and undeniably _sturdy._

“I suppose there’ll be no breaking out of this.” Cullen says, darkly, echoing her thoughts.

“I don’t think so. Are you sure you--”

“No. I’m not _sure,_ no.” He can’t quite keep his eyes off the rope in her hands. “But I want to.”

“Alright…” She slaps the coil of rope against her open palm. The gold thread woven throughout glints as it catches the morning light. “Strip down to your skin, Cullen.”

He gives he a look that’s equal parts amusement and alarm, but slowly starts to obey.

She circles him as he undresses. Silently watching as he unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and folds it carefully over the back of the chair. His movements are deliberate. Restrained. She can hear his steadying intake of breath as he slides breeches and smalls down over the curve of his ass. His buttocks clench as he shifts his weight to a single leg, and steps free of his breeches.

He’s already half-hard when he turns back to face her. The ruby tip of his cock barely visible beneath his foreskin. He cups his balls nervously in one hand. “So…”

“Stand by the bed.” She instructs. “Face me. Legs apart.”

His eyebrows fly up, but he moves into position. Automatically locking his arms behind his back, like a soldier awaiting orders.

She sets the small chest on the bed beside him, extracting three more lengths of rope. There are several other coils, considerably more slender than the set she holds, and she wonders briefly to their purpose. She drops to her knees before him, running her hands lightly up the inside of his left ankle. “You ready?”

His only reply is a breathless chuckle.

It takes her a few tries to find a tie she likes. One that’s sturdy, and wraps several times around his ankle, yet is long enough to secure to one of the sides of the bedpost. It is hard to get the ropes just right she finds. The rope is soft, but holds surprisingly well. If she isn’t bold enough with her tie, she isn’t able to adjust it, and has to begin again. By the time she gets his other leg secure, ankles braced shoulder width apart, Cullen is nearly flaccid again. No matter.

She brushes her fingers up the inside of his thighs, as she rises. His breath hitches, cock twitching visibly.

“Are you... going to let me come this time?” He asks, eyes lowered.

A lazy smile blooms across her lips. “Do you want me to?”

Hesitation, then, a nod.

The last time she’d bound him he’d been nearly delirious with exhaustion. She’s not sure how much of the experience he remembers, but memories of that night are certainly stamped across _her_ heart. Cullen. Bound to the chair in his office. Begging as she edged him. Furious in his denial. Straining. Struggling.

She presses a kiss to his hipbone, then covers the spot with her thumb, as though hiding it. His posture is rigid, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen, tense. His hands are still fisted in the small of his back. She considers binding them there, but she’s afraid he’ll fall over at some point and break his legs.

She walks her fingertips slowly up his stomach, considering. When she reaches his nipple, she _flicks_ it, sharply, and Cullen jumps. Gritting his teeth on the startled sound he makes.

She draws his hands apart, and ties a length of rope around one wrist, and then the other. Then loops each length around the canopy bedframe, so Cullen's arms are fully extended, his body arrayed in an _X._ His cock, she notices, is nearly completely hard.

She reaches over and drapes the blindfold over his shoulder. The black silk a sharp contrast against all that rose gold skin. “Alright?” She asks.

The muscles of his chest flex as he tests the ropes. Pulling gently at first, and then with more, and more force. The canopy creaks a little but the ties hold. Cullen nods.

“You remember your word?”

He nods again.

“I need to hear you say it.”

His eyes meet hers for the first time since she began tying him. “Mercy.” He whispers.

 _“Good boy.”_ She murmurs, leaning close enough that her lips brush the shell of his ear, brushes blonde curls away from his temples, and fastens the blindfold carefully around his head. Adjusting it until she’s certain it blocks his sight completely. Twisting the ends into a knot. Then steps back to admire the view.

Cullen is _gorgeous._ Trussed, and flushed, and aroused. She watches him for a long time, resisting the powerful urge to caress him. Robbed of his sight, he breathes heavily, chest expanding and compressing rhythmically. He shifts now and then, adjusting, carefully testing the bonds for weaknesses, exploring his own range of -- now quite limited -- motion.

_Well now…_

She loosens the ties of her her nightgown, enough to let it fall to the floor in a puddle of soft white fabric. Cullen’s head swivels towards the sound, breath catching on an exhale.

She runs her fingers down the ripple of muscle along the side of his ribs. Fingers moving in tiny steps as she walks her way over to his nipple. She doesn’t touch it, just traces slow circles around the tiny crinkle of hair that rings his nipple, smiling when it draws up into a tight pucker. Cullen clenches his teeth tightly, but doesn’t make a sound. Her touch travels slowly down, weaving around his ribs, and clenching abdominals. Lingering for a moment to play with soft brown curls below his navel.

When she finally reaches his cock, she grasps it, pumping the full length of him with long, slow strokes. The muscles of his belly quiver as she brings him to full erectness, and keeps pumping, dragging a low groan from him. She swirls her thumb around the head of Cullen’s cock. A bead of precome forms at the tip.

She _flicks_ it off with her fingers.

Cullen makes a stunted sound of surprise, and jerks on the ropes hard enough to make the bed creak. His hips lift and press forward, blindly seeking.

She drags her fingers down his quivering belly. Then does it again, this time with her nails. Scratches her way across tender flesh, up his flank, and between his thighs. He tries to mask his reactions. Tries to bite back the startled cries, and curses she pulls from him. But he can’t anticipate where she’ll touch him next, and when she reaches up and flicks at his nipple -- again -- he makes a shunted, frustrated sound, bare toes curled in the carpet.

He sucks in a startled breath when he feels her weight settle on the bed behind him. His buttocks clench defensively when she reaches out to stroke them.

“Relax, Cullen.”

He makes a strained half-chuckle. “Easy for you to say.” He jerks on the ropes that bind him, but succeeds only in making the bedstead creak quietly.

She calls a misshapen lump of ice to her hand. A fire mage through, and through, frost has always been elusive, and it takes an absurd amount of effort to pull even that from the fade. She’s a little glad Cullen can’t see her struggle.

Still, he’s _sensitive_ to magic. His head jerks up the moment she begins casting. “What are you--?”

 _“Shhhhhhh.”_ She insists, and presses the ice to the small of his back.

Cullen makes a shocked sound, arching away from the sudden cold. _“Maker’s Brea-- Ah!”_ He hunches, trying to draw his shoulders up around his ears. “I don’t remember the letter saying anything about -- _ack!”_

She slides the ice carefully up his spine, still squeezing at his cock, and he shudders, trying to twist away from the duality of the sensation. Drops of melted ice slide over the curve of his ass and down his crack. Tickle at his balls. Gooseflesh breaks out across his skin, and his nipple draws tight. She leans over and draws it into her mouth, suckling hard, teeth scraping the nub.

Cullen swears, jerks on the ropes, and then his whole body goes still and tight as she presses the ice to the tip of his stiff cock. He makes such a lovely, broken sound she does it again. Fingers curling around his sac, stroking the shape of each testicle. She pulls gently down on his balls, and he arches into her touch with a startled cry. She does it again, more firmly. Drags the ice up and down the underside of his cock, until it is dripping, and nearly purple.

 _“Shit!”_ He starts to struggle in earnest against the ropes, but they hold. “You’re going to freeze my cock off.”

She grins, and presses a brief, chaste kiss to the tip. “Cold, Cullen?”

There's a cup of tea on the nightstand, Cullen’s she assumes, looking dubiously at the dark swirl of liquid. It’s long since gone cold, but she heats it with a tiny puff of magic, and takes an exploratory swallow. Bitter. And nearly scalding. But she takes another, larger sip, holding the heated liquid in her mouth for a moment before swallowing.

Then she bends, and draws Cullen’s chilled cock into the depths of her hot mouth.

She wishes she could see his face. His thighs shiver and shake, and he makes a noise that sounds like he’s forgotten entirely how to breathe. She makes a soothing sound, pulls off, and kisses her way up and down the length of his cock. She licks his balls carefully, circling each testicle, and the seam between, before drawing him into her mouth again.

“Maker… _can’t.”_ He begs hoarsely, hips flexing as he tries to simultaneously thrust, and twist away. “Mouth… your mouth is like fire.” He pants. “Too… _fuck, it’s too much!_ ”

She bobs, taking Cullen’s cock into the back of her throat, and out again, swirling her tongue around the tip of him with every upstroke. His protests dissolve into a garbled noise of pleasure, head falling back as she sucks at him. Salt mixes with the bitterness of the tea, as he spills a little precome against her tongue.

When she presses the lump of ice back against the underside of his balls, and the shuddery sound he makes is practically indescribable. His entire body flexes in one fluid motion. His hips stutter, trying to move away from the sharp chill of the ice, but he only succeeds in thrusting himself deeper into her mouth. His cock quivers, harder than ever.

She pulls off him, slowly, slowly. Letting the ice trail just behind her lips. Dragging the biting cold from Cullen’s balls, to the base of his cock, and up his shaft. Swirling the ice around the tip of his cock, just around the flared ridge.

 _“Fuck!”_ Cullen swears, head turning.

She alternates between the ice and the tea-warmed heat of her mouth. Each drawing the sensation of the other to a near painful edge. And Cullen shivers, and shakes, and _writhes_ through the attention, body faintly sheened with sweat, but his erection never flags.

He likes to fight the ropes, she notices. Likes to yank on them in his frustration. Muscles bunching as he jerks against his bonds. Body flexing in his struggle to slip free.

The marks of the ice show beautifully against his pale skin. Bright pink blotches all across his belly, and buttocks, and chest. His cock has borne the worst of it. It drips. Hard, and slick, and faintly purple. One of his thighs can’t stop shaking. She scrapes her teeth along the quivering muscle, whispering praise, as the last of the ice melts.

Cullen lets out a shaky little laugh of relief.

She smirks, but he can’t see it, and gives his balls a friendly _pat,_ as she rises to her feet.

 _“Ow!_ Maker.” He glares. Or tries to. The expression is much diminished by the blindfold.

She drags her desk chair carefully towards the bed. Cullen follows the sound with his head, shifting with apprehension, though he doesn’t ask what she’s doing. She sets the chair directly in front of him, and bends over, bracing herself against the armrests. Then reaches behind herself, and grips his cock to keep it steady.

 _“Cold.”_ She murmurs, pressing the tip of him against the slickness of her cunt.

Cullen snorts. “You think _you’re -- uuugh!”_

She presses down, and down, taking his cock into the heat of her. He _is_ cold. Cold and hard. A cock cast in silverite. She wriggles against him, stretches _around_ him. The position lacks something in terms of leverage, but still, a thrill shoots up her spine at the thought of having him like this.

_At her mercy, indeed._

She bounces carefully, moving herself up and down his length. Cullen gives a mighty groan, head flung back. He’s more sensitive than usual, she can tell. As though fire and ice have inflamed his nerves, and he’s already hanging at the edge of orgasm. His toes curl. Hands, clench, and unclench, reflexively.

It is _hard_ not to tease him.

It would be easy, she thinks, to slide him from her body and seat herself on the chair. To watch him shiver, and fall apart, and _beg._ Easy enough to imagine touching herself, _sating_ herself with the tips of her own fingers, while he was bound. Helpless. Allowed only the _sounds_ of her pleasure. But his cock rests thick, and heavy inside her, like an anchor. And the sounds _he_ makes, tiny moans, and half formed pleas, keep her tethered to him.

So instead, she slides herself up and down the entire length of his cock. Taking him in long, steady strokes, as Cullen bites back a sound that’s half frustration, half pleasure.

Heat pools in the small of her back. Creeps down her thighs. She tries to ignore her own building pleasure. Tries to focus on the sound of flesh meeting bare flesh. But every hitch, and shift of Cullen’s hips, sends molten heat spiraling through her. Sets her writhing on his cock.

“Cullen…”

The careful thrusting of his hips stutter at the sound of his name from her lips.

“Cullen,” She moans. “Yes, Cullen...”

A shocked, pleading sound from behind her. “Maker’s Breath, I can’t -- I…” He jerks in his bonds, as much as he can, which isn’t much. “Please --”

 _“Cullen!”_ She reaches between her legs, worries at her clit with a slippery thumb. Abandons all grace, and rhythm in favor of feeding that sweet, bright ache.

He gives her, her own name back. A groan through tightly clenched teeth.

And she comes suddenly with a soft, surprised cry. The orgasm rushes through her, stealing her breath, and her thoughts. The arm she has braced against the chair, collapses, and she nearly face-plants into the padded seat. She grabs onto the chair, laughing. Panting. Legs suddenly turned liquid.

Behind her, Cullen makes a pleading noise. Hips still rocking in those tiny, careful thrusts. “Please...”

She rolls her hips once more, for the delicious, broken sound Cullen makes, before stepping away from him. He slides free of her, but she drops to her knees before he can protest, pulling his cock into her mouth. She tastes herself. And him. And the flat, bitter note of tea that lingers beneath the salt and the musk.

Cullen swears. She sucks at the head of his cock, one hand covering what her mouth can’t hold, the other, strokes tenderly at his balls. The muscles of his belly flex. Once. Twice. His balls contract suddenly, drawing high and tight a moment before he spills. A flood of heat, and salt, and she has to stop herself from automatically swallowing. Instead she licks a careful stripe up his cock, and across the tangle of golden-brown curls. Her tongue trails up his belly, and higher still. Over his chest, and the hollow of his throat, where tender skin gives way to rasping stubble.

Cullen bends his head automatically as she draws closer to his lips. Breathing heavily as he accepts her kiss. She cups the back of his head to keep him steady, and when he deepens the kiss, finds her mouth still full of the spill of his pleasure.

He groans, but doesn’t pull away. Kisses her carefully, but deeply.

She makes a pleased sound.

And steps back to look at him.

Cullen is red, and trembly, and sags heavily in the ropes. His cock -- half erect, and still a bit purple -- bounces gently as he breathes. She reaches out to stroke his chest, and he shivers. She can feel his heartbeat, not heavy, and slow as it often is after orgasm, but _pounding_. A relentless _thud_ in his chest, like his heart is trying to escape from beneath her fingers.

“Alright?” She asks, wiping at her chin.

It takes a moment for him to answer, but he nods, and gives a tired chuckle. “Alright.” He bends his head, blindly seeking another kiss, and she has to rise up on her toes to press one against his mouth. “I… Maker’s Breath, you will be the death of me.”

She laughs. Reaches up behind his head, and plucks apart the knot on the blindfold. Cullen squints at the morning light, and shakes his head a few times. She frees his hands next. The left, and then the right. He groans, rubs at his wrists, then reaches at once for her, drawing her close for a proper kiss. One hand reaches up to cup her breast, the other, keeps her tight against him. She can feel him trembling, still oversensitive.

Still overwrought.

It takes a minute to untangle herself so she can free his legs. And when she does Cullen collapses back onto the bed, reaching out with an arm to scoop her up, and pull her down on him. He gets her thoroughly wedged beneath him, knees and thighs locking her into place. A hand grips her wrist.

“Forgiven?” He asks.

She hesitates, and he gets a firm grip on her buttock, and _glares._

A smile tugs at her lips. “Of course.”

He sighs, a little forlornly. “Maker’s Breath, whatever shall I tell Dagna?”

“I do believe the Chantry espouses the virtues of honesty.”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: Bondage, Cum sharing, Sensory Deprivation, Ice play
> 
>  
> 
> *cough* So massive apologies for the tremendously long, fucking half-year wait between chapters. I swear it was March yesterday. The delay was due to 2 months of solid travel, a nasty bout of pneumonia, other unpleasant life stuff, playing ME1-3, and generally being stuck with my first bout of writers block. Oh, and trying to figure out how they were going to get into Solas' pants without it being ENTIRELY out-of-character.
> 
> So yes, that's gonna happen. Yes, it's gonna take a bit -- Cullen is still pretty skittish about anything that's the least bit extreme. And, overall it's gonna remain a Cullen x Trevelyan focused story.


	14. Plant Your Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The AMAZING letter in this chapter is by Fadburger  
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadburger/pseuds/Fadburger
> 
> <3 <3
> 
> Extra special thanks to my beta Valyrias who read through this while on a trip.
> 
>  
> 
> (chapter specific tags at the end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> public service announcement: "pulling out" is a terrible method of birth control.

Fatigue has always walked beside him; it has been a constant companion since Calenhad.

It had friends once. Numbness. Terror. Two strange bedfellows that would take his hand in turns, and lead him through the day, fatigue always trailing behind. Numbness left him first. It vanished one day amidst the failing that was Kirkwall and left him blinking into the sun, bewildered to be in a place spiraling so utterly out of control. Terror didn’t go without a fight. It had its claws sunk  _ deep _ into him. If he concentrates, he can still feel the heavy drag of terror’s grip. It was a grip, loosened by time, that Trevelyan had eventually pulled free, leaving behind only scars. Only  _ echoes  _ of the old fears. But fatigue keeps him company still. By the time he  _ could _ sleep, he was simply too out of practice. When night falls, he’s never sure what to do with himself.

So he works –– there is always something of use he might do, after all. Some order to execute, some requisition to oversee, some deployment to authorize, some horrifying new set of schematics from Dagna that need approval for testing. He works, and the hours slide by, marked only by the steady repetition of his movements, the dip and scratch of his quill, and the growing stiffness between his shoulder blades.

Hours later, he is still at work in the Small Hall when the last of the candles gutters out. He swears, and sits in total darkness for a few minutes, hoping his eyes will adjust enough to allow him to finish the sentence he was writing. When he’s certain the ink on the quill has dried, he sighs, and fumbles to cap the inkwell on the desk they’d brought down for him. Then he stumbles blindly towards the door, feeling like an idiot for not bothering to keep the fireplace fed, and nearly breaking his ankle on some ominous bit of something-or-other that’s been left on the floor. (It feels a bit like one of Gatsi’s damned rocks.)

He limps carefully up the stairs to the Great Hall, which is still –– Maker be praised –– lit with sconces.  It is late. Absurdly, inexcusably late. And he has no reason to expect Trevelyan to be awake at this hour, but a part of him –– selfishly –– hopes she is, as he crosses to their chambers, and pushes open the door to the lower landing. Oil lamps line the stairwell up to their quarters, but there is no spill of light beneath the upper door. He ascends the stairs, and  lifts the door latch carefully, wincing when the wood creaks. It is dark inside, but once his eyes adjust it is easy enough to see –– the stained glass windows set high into the walls let in a spill of moonlight, and Trevelyan has stopped drawing the curtains completely since he moved in, to compensate for the fact that he’s grown used to a bit more light, and a bit more sky.

He moves towards the bed.

She is asleep. Curled on her side, with a hand flung out, as if searching for him. Her hair spills across the pillow, glinting in silver bits here and there, where the gloss of it catches the moonlight.

He exhales slowly.

_ Maker, she is beautiful. _

And he knows he should not, but he cannot help himself –– he bends, and presses a kiss, as softly as he can, to the back of her outstretched hand.

Her eyes flutter open, pupils unfocused. She grunts at him, sounding annoyed. “Cullen?”

_ Damn,  _ he thinks, but cannot it find it in him to be entirely sorry. “You ought to be sleeping.” He whispers, and kisses the tips of each of her fingers.

“I  _ was _ sleeping.” She accuses, voice raspy.

He smiles. “You were. I’m sorry.”

She rolls over to make space as he undresses. One eye closed, the other regarding him with a mix of fondness and annoyance. He chuckles as he slides into bed, plants a third kiss against the backs of her knuckles, and tucks himself behind her.

She makes a soft, happy sound and presses herself more tightly into his embrace.

He lays pressed against her in the darkness, listening to the slow, steady sounds of her breathing, feeling the sudden droop of her head as she drops back off to sleep.  She’s warm against him –– she is  _ always _ warm, as if her ribs hold space for a tiny flame inside her, and he wonders if this is some fire mage trick. He can feel the heat of her against his thighs, and chest, and that warm little arse of hers cradled against his hips.

His cock twitches.

_ Control, Rutherford.  _ He thinks sternly, glaring down at himself.

He takes slow, careful breaths through his nose and thinks about mountains of paperwork, to distract himself. Shifts his hips carefully back, trying to unobtrusively make space between their nether regions. But his cock, unsurprisingly –– or perhaps  _ surprisingly,  _ given the hour –– isn’t cooperating, and continues to stiffen.

_ Maker’s breath. _

He’s nearly completely hard now, and the tip of his cock is pressing against the base of her spine. He wonders if it’s better to roll over and wait for his erection to abate, or to slip from the bed, and take matters into his own hands. Either scenario would likely lead to Trevelyan waking, and ––

She shifts in her sleep, drawing closer to him. His cock rests thickly against the crack of her arse.

He holds his breath.

A beat.

And then another.

And she bumps back against him again, deliberately wriggling her arse against his cock.

His breath rushes out in a surprised, and somewhat indignant  _ huff. _

“Hmmmmmm?” She asks, a lazy smile pulling at her lips. Her voice is husky with sleep, and pitched so low the sound she makes is little more than a vibrating purr.

Well… they’ll be no waiting for his erection to go down  _ now. _

“It’s late.” He protests softly, clinging to a slipping sense of propriety. “You ought to be  _ sleeping.” _

She moves away with a grunt, and he feels both glad, and fiercely disappointed, until she rolls back over, pressing a crumpled envelope into his palm. “Here.”

“What are –– were you keeping this underneath your pillow?” He demands.

Trevelyan shrugs lazily, and rubs at her eyes. “I didn’t want to have to keep getting out of bed.”

He blinks stupidly at the letter in his hand. “You ought to be sleeping.” He says, for the third time that night.

“I will.  _ Afterwards.”  _ She grins. “Besides, I  _ can’t _ sleep with you poking me in the back with your ––”

His  _ harrumph  _ is lost beneath the soft snorting sound she makes that doubles as laughter in the mornings.  _ Stubborn woman. _ The easiest way to get her to go back to bed might just be giving her what she wants.

And what he wants...

He glances at the envelope in his hand.

“It isn't going to open itself, Cullen.” She says.

He snorts. Fumbles briefly with the envelope, before tearing it open with a sort of impatient annoyance, and glares at the letter tucked inside. “It’s too dark to ––”

Trevelyan calls fire to her fingertips. A soft spell, all light and no heat, but it flares for a moment like a tiny sun in her hand. He grunts, feeling the prickle of his old powers, like fingers drumming on the inside of his skull. That  _ awareness _ lingers between his brows but doesn't shift into a headache –– or worse –– so he pulls her wrist closer, and reads out loud:

_ “Dear Ser Rutherford, _

_ “At the ball I had observed your perfect poise and proportions, as well as your gleaming golden hair and eyes. One doesn't often see a strapping Ferelden man in the prime of his life with brute strength and endurance  amongst Orlesian noblemen.” _

She grins, running her the fingers of her free hand down his flank.

“Stop it, that tickles.” He grabs at her hand. “Do you want me to read it, or not?”

_ “My house would be very well served by the blood of one such as yourself running hotly through their veins.”  _ He continues, _ “Alas but my husband has not been able to get me with child and whilst at the ball he and I came to an agreement: _

_ “We should like for you to… to…”  _ He clears his throat,  _ “...to plant your seed deep within my womb so that it takes root and ultimately bears fruit. When such a time comes to pass I would have another request of you, that when I am ripe to bursting with your child you would come to me in my chambers and pray at the altar of my body, take me like you did the first time and show me again all the pleasures of your gorgeous flesh. _

_ Eagerly, _

_ Lady Félicia Caron Deslys and  _ _ Lord Théodore Deslys II” _

 

The light in her hand goes out.

She looks at him.

“I  _ refuse to––” _ He sputters, going red. “Just because of a letter…  _ We can’t!” _

_ Still. _

An image of Trevelyan flashes through his mind. Bare breasts full –– well, full _ er –– _ and resting against the curve of her belly.

“No.” He shakes his head to clear the brief fantasy. “Just –– _ no.  _ Corypheus is still out there!” He points vaguely out the window, and then has to go see for himself that the ancient magister  _ isn’t, _ in fact, looming outside of Trevelyan’s balcony.

He feels her come up behind him, a warm, steadying presence against his back, and draws her arms around him, linking her hands with his.

_ “Ridiculous.” _ He says. Not knowing if he means the letter, or his paranoia, or the fierceness of his erection.

“It is... for now.” She presses a tiny kiss between his bare shoulder blades. “We’ve never really spoken about the future… about what you want––”

“I want  _ you.” _

He can feel the shape of her smile against his skin. “No, I mean, a home… A child? Children?”

He sucks in a startled breath. He hasn’t thought much about the future. Ever. For a Templar, the only day that matters is today. Order and duty. Any time he’d pictured himself in the future, it was in a Circle. Wrapped in that quiet monotony. Order. Duty. Day, after day. But he’d stopped thinking about what tomorrow would bring when Kirkwall had fallen, and he’d left the Order behind. It was simply enough to  _ exist.  _ And it had been much the same in the Inquisition –– every day, clawing a bit of the world back together, glad to have another day to try again.

But her question conjures something inside of him.  _ A home. A child. Children.  _ And it’s easy enough to imagine.

A small house somewhere in Ferelden. A place that’s cold and quiet in the winter, and a riot of wildflowers in the spring. Horses. Pigs. A mabari or two, snapping good-naturedly at smallish versions of himself; yellow curls, and far too little common sense. And  _ her. _

It is hard to imagine Trevelyan there, among the quiet simplicity he imagines –– a mirror of his own childhood –– not when he so strongly associates her with a hurricane. Of magic, and power, and influence. She is noble born, and suited to this role. Suited to this world. He wonders if a life filled with pigs, and horses, and curly haired children –– a common life ––  would be enough for her.

And if it wasn’t...

He lets out a long, slow breath, glad that she is behind him, and cannot see his expression.

“Cullen?”

“I––” He shakes his head. “I don’t think of the future often.” He says, voice gruff. “Templars…”

_ “Mages.” _ She says, in quiet agreement. “I suppose neither of us grew up expecting to have a family.”

“That’s true.” He twists around in her arms, turning to face her, pulling her closer as he goes. “Though, if that’s not our aim, we ought to be more careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, er… we–– that is, _ I  _ haven’t… or rather I  _ have…”  _ His cock, gone semi-soft with worry gives a renewed twitch of interest as he recalls the nights spent buried within her, hips bucking, chasing his own, single-minded pleasure, finishing...  “Er…  _ inside. _ Frequently.”

She gives him a look he can’t quite read. “Cullen Rutherford, are you… worried about getting me  _ pregnant?” _

“No.” He can feel his color –– and the pitch of his voice –– rising at an alarming rate. “Well, yes. Possibly. I suppose I hadn't really thought––”

She laughs. “But I  _ told _ you not to worry about that. There are…  _ spells,  _ and I––”

“Don’t remember you  _ ever _ saying––”

“I did! The first time we were together.”

_ “What?” _ He scowls, casting his mind back to that quiet, and unexpected, and  _ life changing _ morning in Haven. “When? I am  _ quite _ certain you never––”

_ “I did.” _ She insists, going a little red in the face. “When I was… was...” She grinds her teeth together, and he feels a sort of satisfaction at seeing  _ her _ red-faced and fumbling for words.

For once.

“Was what?” He presses.

She elbows him squarely in the ribs. “Was bent over your desk ––  _ Cullen Rutherford, stop smirking at me!” _

His smile pulls even wider. “Well, that’s your fault for thinking I was capable of rational thought while your pants were around your ankles. I wasn’t. I’m still not.” He adds, for the sake of strict accuracy.

She huffs through her nose, butting her head against his shoulder blades, and he laughs, startling himself. Maker, if anyone had told him that that first, hurried encounter would lead them here, to this night, to the feel of her in his arms, and dreams of a shared future…

For a moment, his heart feels so full, it is difficult to catch his breath. And he thinks that he would be content to stand like this forever, with her.

He has not found time enough to properly genuflect in the Chantry for all he has been given, but sends a prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving to the Maker and his Bride. For, undeserving as he is, he can be at peace with  _ everything _ –– all that he is, all that he has done in this life –– if it has lead him to her. He murmurs the words of the prayer as softly as he can, and kisses the tips of her fingers at the close.

He twists around in Trevelyan’s arms, until he can plant another kiss against her forehead. His hands drop to the swell of her hips, and he sighs, “I love you.”

“Don’t stop.” The corners of her mouth turn up into a smile.

He can feel his own answering smile, and runs his thumb across the fullness of her bottom lip. “Never.” He promises. “Not ever.”

He bends down, and she raises up on her toes, and they meet in the middle. His heart gives an absurd little flutter –– as though it was the first time, as though he didn’t know the taste of her, the feel of her beneath his hands as much as anything –– when she hooks her arms around the back of his neck, drawing him deeper into the kiss. His hands slide up her back, over the curve of her spine, fingers spreading, savoring the flex of her ribs as she makes a series of pleased little sounds.

They stay like that for a long, long time. Pressed together in the moonlight. He’s not sure if it’s one long, unhurried kiss they share, or dozens. He can feel her mouth move beneath his. A sigh. A smile. The tiny scrape of teeth against his bottom lip. A sharper, more distinct  _ bite,  _ that makes a breath of longing shudder out of him.

He follows her lead, nipping gently, letting the sweetness of the kiss shift to something deep, and hungry. He sucks carefully at her lower lip, letting a cloud of desire start to fill his head. It feels like forever since he's had her. It hasn't been, but suddenly he wants very badly to be within her.

He drags her closer, trailing his touch back down her body, down the dip of her waist, and the sudden swell of her hips, lower still, until he cups the heaviness of her arse in both his hands.  _ “Maker’s breath, woman.”  _ He growls against her lips. Feels his cock stir with impatience. “Bend yourself over my desk.” He says, sharply enough that she can tell it’s a command, not a suggestion, and gives her arse a friendly  _ slap _ as she goes.

Trevelyan folds herself carefully over the edge of his desk, brushing a stack of papers aside. “Feeling nostalgic?”

“A bit.” He chuckles, and takes a moment to ensure the inkstand is well capped, before slowly starting to tug the laces of his knickers open. They’re plain, and a little threadbare. Very much like what he’d been wearing the first time he’d had her –– that unexpected morning in Haven. She’d had on that horrendous scout’s armor they stuck her in when they first found her, a greenish tunic, and breeches… well, he doesn’t remember what color they were, they’d been around her ankles at the time. He makes a thoughtful sound. “Besides, what did the letter say?  _ Take me as you did the first time?” _

_ “And show me again all the pleasures of your gorgeous flesh.”  _ She quotes.

He chuckles. “I'm fairly certain the first time, those pleasures lasted precisely thirty seconds.”

“Oh, thirty-five, at least.” She grins up at him.

A snort. He scratches at the flare of heat at the back of his neck. “If I’d had a bit of warning, I might have been better prepared. Now, show me that lovely arse of yours.”

She does.  _ Slowly,  _ and with an impish grin. He feels an answering smile tug at his lips as he watches the hem of her gown skate up her calves, and her thighs, finally, finally drawing up over the swell of her ass. He makes an appreciative sound, runs his fingertips down the length of his exposed cock. Hard as he is, he wants to  _ savor _ this, and drops to his knees with a smirk she can’t possibly see.

“Now  _ this,”  _ he says with satisfaction, a handbreadth away from her cunt.  _ “This _ is a bit more like the first time.”

She makes brief, breathless noise of affirmation, and then a far louder, and more breathless one, as he leans forward and presses his mouth against the warm flush between her thighs. She tastes like silver and salt, wet and hot, and he makes an appreciative sound. He slides his fingers between her buttocks, lifting and spreading her, thumbs holding her folds apart, and  _ feasts,  _ tongue setting a steady pace that she knows will drive her mad. She bucks against him, and he cannot help but smile, feeling the rasp of his stubble against tender skin. He adjusts, sliding one of his thumbs  _ into _ her, rubbing in slow, careful circles, as he pleasures her with his mouth.

_ Maker, he could do his all night. _

But it isn’t like the first time. Not really. He’s well practiced in this. Knows her body almost as well as his own. He knows how to tease her, how to draw out her moans, and sighs, until they’re edged with a desperate frustration. And he knows how to drive her hard towards pleasure, and leave her gasping and ruined in its wake. The first time he’d had her, he’d been a wreck of uncertainty and need, overwhelmed at the thought of having her, and terrified of doing it poorly. He hasn’t felt like that in a long, long time, not since ––  _ ah.  _ His free hand drifts higher, up over that slick of bare skin between her cunt and her ––

“I’m going to fuck your ass tonight.” He says suddenly. The husk of his voice is low, and certain. It wasn’t phrased as a question, but his thumb drifts, circling that tiny, clenching hole over and over, waiting for ––

_ “Yes.”  _ She whispers, and for a moment he thinks he almost goes blind with desire. “Please, Cullen. Do it.”

He swears. At least he thinks he does. His mouth forms words, but for all he knows it could be a prayer, or a promise, or the honest observation that he’s never, never,  _ never _ been this aroused before.

His index finger is slick with her pleasure, and he presses in, just a bit, with the very tip of his finger.

“Do it now.” She asks. “Cullen,  _ please.” _

“Holy fuck.” He growls through clenched teeth. His hand trembles, finger pressing deeper into her ass.

She arches, trying to press herself down on him, and he pulls back, ignoring her growl of frustration, suddenly remembering that he needs ––  _ “Oil, damnit.” _ He tears through the top drawer of his desk, searching for the tiny bottle. “Shit, hold on, hold on.”

She whines. A sound so low and needy, he nearly abandons the search before his fingers close around the small glass vial.

He drops a slick of oil against his fingers, hastily coating them before reaching between her buttocks. She wriggles, trying to help the application, but it only makes his aim slip. “Hold still.” He growls, pressing down firmly on the small of her back.

“Cullen…”

He enters again her with a single slick digit, trying to remember everything Bull had ever taught him about anal sex.  _ Go slow. Lots of oil. Pay attention.  _ He takes a deep breath, pumping carefully. She flexes around his fingers, arse drawing suddenly tight, and he stills, swearing.  _ Go slow. Lots of oil. Pay attention. _

“Pay attention to what?” She asks between ragged breaths.

He chuckles, face going red, and carefully slides in a second finger. “To this.”

Her breathing stutters for a moment and he pauses to allow her to adjust, before pressing up to the second knuckle. She’s tight, and a little tense. For all that she’s clearly willing, he can feel a nervous sort of energy riding up the backs of her legs, and presses open mouthed kisses across the swell of buttocks, to try to calm her.  _ “Shhhh,  _ my love. Gently, gently.” He promises.

To his surprise, she comes as he stretches her. The sound of it is deep, and gratifying, and she clamps around his fingers so hard that for a moment, it’s almost painful. But her arse relaxes noticeably in the wake of her orgasm, and he resumes his careful pumping. In, and out. In, and out. Each time a bit deeper, until he slides his fingers up to the third knuckle. Crooking, and twisting them inside her. She groans, and tries to wiggle out of his grasp but his fingers dig into her hips, stilling her. He can’t see her face, but she keeps rising up on her toes, seeking more sensation, and trying to flee it all at once.

He wonders if he should try for three fingers.

“Cullen,  _ please…” _ She begs. “Please just ––”

_ “Shhhhh.”  _ He urges. “Just a little longer.”

He pumps harder, trying to spread his fingers within her. She’s more relaxed overall, doesn’t try tense up as much, but he can’t tell if she’s  _ ready _ or just impatient. He searches with his other hand fingers dipping lower, finds her so sodden that her slick nearly drips against her thighs. He grows something very filthy against her ear, and pulls his all his fingers free of her.

His fingers are so slick he almost drops the tiny bottle, but he uncaps it again, and drips another generous amount of oil into his hand, slicking his fingers over the head of his cock, and  _ Maker,  _ he is like skin stretched over silverite, so aroused, it’s almost painful. “Ready?” He breathes.

_ Please be ready, please be ready. _

He positions the tip of his cock against her arsehole, watching as Trevelyan clenches, and then forces herself to relax. A tiny spark of consciousness flares to life in the back of his brain. He stills, cock in hand. “Wait, I don’t want –– not like this.”

She makes a strained sound of protest.

“Not ––” He pulls her back against him, and away from the desk.  _ “Bed. _ Maker, _ get on the bed.” _

There’s a brief stumble to the bed. They’re both breathless and bandy-legged, and Trevelyan nearly trips over the rug on the floor. He strips her quickly, pulling her nightrail off over her head, and accepting a brief kiss in reward before helping her onto the bed. He pushes her down to her hands and knees, and takes a moment to admire the view, the roundness of her bare arse, and the heavy weight of breasts swinging beneath her, before taking position behind her.

“Cullen…” She whines.

“Hush.” He grips the base of his erection, steadying himself, and presses in.

She’s slick with oil, and as ready as he can make her, but she’s tight enough that he can’t even tell. There’s a clenching resistance, and he grips the base of his cock, pressing forward a little more. And a little more. Hard as he is, his cock bends a bit.  _ Maker, he isn’t sure... _ He thinks of pulling back entirely, an apology on his lips, but just then everything shifts, and her ass opens enough, just  _ barely _ enough that he feels himself begin to slide in. Only the very tip, of the tip, but ––

_ Oh fuck. _

_ Oh Maker. _

His fingers dig into her hips in an effort to keep himself from hilting, all at once. She's slick enough that he knows if he pressed, he'd go  _ in.  _ And for a moment the desire to fill her, to be balls deep inside her, is overwhelming.  _ “Shit.” _

Beneath him, she makes a tiny sound of distress, or desire. He tries to focus on it. Can’t. She clenches around him suddenly, nearly squeezing him out, and his thoughts fly apart.

Andraste –– she…

He has to grip Trevelyan’s hips to keep her still, and then her shoulders, pulling her back against him, forcing himself within her by steady pressure alone. He feels the head of his cock pop through the tight ring of muscle, and she makes a noise like he’s just gutted her.

“How… how much?” She asks. Her voice is tremulous. All breath.

“Just the tip.” He groans. “Maker you feel––”

Heat. She is all heat. And desperately, impossibly tight. He has to grip the base of his cock as he presses forward, and into her. She shifts slightly on the bed, and her arsehole clamps down on the tip of his cock. He fixes his teeth in his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

_ Fuck. Maker, fuck. Fuck. _

She relaxes, infinitesimally, and his hips move to fill her, not even half and inch, centimeters perhaps, but she tightens up around him again.

_ “Shhhhh,”  _ he urges, “let me in.” He slides deeper, and pauses. His thighs tremble in the effort to go  _ slow. _ He pauses again, gasping.  _ “Ahh, Maker.” _

_ “Cullen––” _

He makes a gentling sound. “Only a little left, love.”

Her ribs tremble beneath his hands, incredulous. “There’s  _ more?” _

“An inch, or so.” A chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat. “You can take it.”

She swears roundly, and for an instant the fog of desire lifts, and he laughs. A bubble of joy rising through him. But then he presses forward, and her curses shift into a low moan as he hilts himself, cock buried within her, hips pressed flush against her arse.

She’d begun on hands and knees, but now her face is pressed tight against the rumpled blankets, arse up in the air. He can’t see her expression ––  _ sweet Andraste, he wants to see her expression  _ –– but he can feel how overwhelmed she is by the tremble of her ribs, and the hitching rasp of her breathing. The spill of emerald light from her clenched fist is constant enough that for one insane moment, he’s afraid she’ll accidentally set the bedsheets on fire. Or open a rift into the Fade.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, voice rough.

“I don’t –– please just ––” She shakes her head, her fingers splay before clenching tightly again. “Don’t move. Just… don’t move for a moment. I need…”

She might as well have asked him to tear his own heart from his breast. He’s dizzy with the need to  _ move, _ to ride her hard, and fast, and release the steady ache that’s building in his belly. But he fold himself over her back, lips against her spine, and for the first time in his life makes a promise to her he’s not certain he can keep. “I won’t. Tell me when…”

He strokes her flank, crooning inconsequential nonsense, and trying to keep his hips still.  _ Submission _ . It is hard to think of this act in any other terms. Not with the  _ resistance  _ of her body, and the sense of  _ conquering  _ that came with entering her. Not when she shivers, and shakes, and nearly comes apart from penetration alone. Not when there’s an undeniable sense of the forbidden, and a  _ grittiness _ , running through them both like an undercurrent.

He whispers her name, and she  _ trembles _ in response. He can feel her asshole flutter around him. He slides his hands down her stomach, and over the patch of slick and silken hair between her thighs. Her cunt is empty, and he flicks his fingers through her folds, finding the nub of her clit. She cries out sharply, arching into his touch, pulling herself halfway up length of his cock.

He groans, enraptured with the sensation, and she freezes, whimpering. “Cullen…”

“Easy now.” He says, fingers rubbing in slow, insistent circles. “Easy.”

Her cries become louder, and higher pitched, her breathing little more than jagged gasps. When she comes, he has only a moment to savor the accomplishment, before her asshole tightens around in pulses, clenching fiercely enough that it’s almost painful.

He pulls back, hands caressing along the crest of her pelvis, and over her arse, until he can spread her arse cheeks apart and see where they’re connected. It’s ––  _ Maker, _ it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. He’s far longer and thicker than the buttplug they’d used before on her, and that tiny ring of muscle has stretched  _ so far _ to accommodate him. “I’ve got you.” He says, voice hoarse, and presses back in.

She whines, but the sound is edged with a groan, so he grips his hips, and slides himself back out. Not all the way back. He keeps the tip of himself buried inside of her, pausing, infinitesimally at the end of each thrust.

Each stroke is exquisite. There’s heat, and pressure, and a delicious friction that urges him faster. And the  _ sounds _ Trevelyan makes…  _ Maker.  _ His hips speed up, trying to force the sounds from her, until the slap of flesh on flesh is like the pounding of his heart. He says something too broken to understand, and even he isn’t sure what he  _ meant _ to say. His fingers slide up the sweat-slickened skin along her spine, and tangle in her hair. He pulls, gently at first, and then harder, and harder, forcing her back into a deep arch, and all at once everything is a blur. Too much pressure, and sensation, with only tiny moments of clarity to keep him grounded in his own skin.

A guttural sound.

A swallowed sob.

The fierce crescendo of his hips against hers.

His orgasm is so intense it steals his breath. For a moment his heart forgets how beat. Only his hips seem to work, stuttering and jerking against her in an ungainly rhythm sustained by instinct alone. He says her name, or tries to, and his eyes flutter closed.

When he opens them again, he’s pressed against the length of her back, still buried within her, and there’s a magnificent cramp building in his thigh. He trips over her name again –– it’s the first word that comes to his lips, followed promptly by a ragged gasp.  _ “Fuck. _ I think my heart stopped.” He tries to simultaneously drag her hair off her neck so he can kiss her, and avoid crushing her, and somehow fails at both. “Maker, are you –– was you –– I... did I…” He shakes his head.

_ Words, Rutherford. Coherent words. _

He takes a few slow, deep breaths, and tries again. “Thank you.”

_ Rutherford, you ass. _

She laughs. It’s tremulous, and a little wet sounding, but a real laugh for all that. He keeps a leg flung over her hip as she turns in his arms. She’s red-faced and her face is streaked with tears, but her brow is smooth.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

She nods.

“I love you.” They say it at the same time, the words tangling together.  They laugh, and he gets his hands around her face, thumbs smoothing at the wetness on her cheeks. He bends his head and kisses her, soft, and brief, and chaste.

They’re content to lay like that for a long while, arms around each other, legs intertwined. For a while he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but her fingers reach up to stroke the base of his throat.

_ “Why?” _ He asks suddenly, breaking the lazy silence around them. “Why me, I mean. The first time we were together… you said you’d noticed the way I looked at you.  _ I _ thought I was being quite subtle, by the way.”

“I did. And you weren’t.”

He feels her press a tiny, slightly open-mouthed kiss against his collar bone.

“But that was part of it.  _ A lot _ of it.” She says with a shrug. “I thought you wouldn’t mind having sex with me.”

“Wouldn’t mind…  _ Maker’s breath, woman.”  _ He mutters under his breath, incredulous. “And the other part?”

She gives him a  _ look. _ “Cullen Rutherford, you managed to make an entire  _ country _ fall in love with you over the course of a dinner party. _ I _ never stood a chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific tags: Breeding Kink & Voyeurism (letter only), Anal Sex
> 
> CULLEN GOT THE BUTT!  
> I think this series qualifies as anal slowburn. That should probably be a tag.
> 
>  
> 
> Here's to planning to write more in 2018. Turns out 2017 was terrible for that. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Plot, get away from my porn. Shoo!
> 
> *kicks plot*
> 
> If anybody wants to write an Orlesian Letter for Cullen to read, post it as a fic, a comment or send it to my tumblr: https://kauriart.tumblr.com/
> 
> If I can't work it into the main storyline I'll add it as a drabble.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Orlesian Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187717) by [Trewestriandta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trewestriandta/pseuds/Trewestriandta)
  * [I would comfort you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240283) by [Unicorn_farm (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Unicorn_farm)




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